


A Blessing in Disguise

by Twilight Fang (Asthenos)



Category: Pillars of the Earth
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-02-04 12:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 52,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18604219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asthenos/pseuds/Twilight%20Fang
Summary: The burning of the church may have been the work of the devil, but Prior Philip believes that it was God who gifted him with Tom Builder. Things become complicated when their relationship evolves into something controversial.Due to the loss of a loved one, the next chapter of this fic has been temporarily delayed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gaelic_fiddle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaelic_fiddle/gifts).



> This is based mainly on the TV miniseries adaptation of The Pillars of the Earth, including the character descriptions. The beginning of this fic will loosely follow the first few episodes of the miniseries before it becomes AU.
> 
> Any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated! ^_^

Although Tom Builder had been expecting to find himself a lengthy and worthwhile project when he and his family dragged themselves onto the property of Kingsbridge Priory, he hadn’t been prepared for the extent of disrepair the holy buildings were in. The cathedral was the first eyesore that drew his attention. Short, stocky, and critically lopsided, it was no wonder that one of the towers had already collapsed. Its matching twin looked like it was just about ready to join the pile of rubble that the first tower had become. And considering the state that the rotting wooden roof was in, Tom would have found it surprising if it wasn’t infested with termites.

Surveying the damage, Tom surmised that the collapse of the south tower had happened quite some time ago but nothing had been done to clean up after it since. Whatever fragments had unluckily landed on the inside of the building would probably remain there as well. The narrow, randomly placed little slats that were passing off as windows were incapable of sufficiently lighting the gloomy building inside. Without the necessary light, there could be no successful cleanup.

Tom couldn’t decide whether it was a blessing or a curse that the monastery itself had lasted so long for it was a wretched looking monstrosity in need of being torn down, along with its church. It had been slapped together hastily with little regard given to its aesthetic appeal. Here and there, stones were cracked, and between them the mortar was crumbling. Some parts of the building seemed to serve no actual purpose, having been added for the sake of artistic flair, which Tom considered to be in poor taste. In his mind, all parts of a structure had to have purpose, whether it be for support, function, or balance. Symmetry and balance were essential when creating a house dedicated to God, but the home in which His faithful followers lived should also adhere to the minimum standards, at the very least.

While Tom had been visually inspecting the monastery from a distance, his fellow travellers had apparently vanished. When he turned to look on either side of him, he found no sign of either his children, or the unrelated woman and child that he’d arrived with.

It was late afternoon already. The sun would be dropping below the horizon and out of sight soon, taking with it the barely noticeable warmth that it had been providing to battle the cold winter air.

There were voices coming from inside the old musty church. One was calm and reflective, while the other sounded excited and incredulous. Following the voices, Tom found himself inside the hollowed out carcass of the old church. He paused inside the nave, giving his eyes time to adjust to the dark interior. When he advanced through the nave, he couldn’t help but notice that the floor was slippery for it was covered in the same muck that spanned the premises of the priory outside. Was no one responsible for keeping the church clean and respectable?

Tom located his son Alfred enthusiastically interrogating a tall monk in a ratty woolly robe a few feet in front of him.

“Is that his real head?” Alfred was asking. He was hunched over, peering inside a glass case near the altar. The glass was clouded with grime and age, but otherwise still transparent enough to be able to see the skull that it housed.

“Indeed it is. Saint Adolphus carried it here himself,” the monk responded matter-of-factly.

“I’m sorry if he’s bothering you,” Tom apologized, interrupting whatever Alfred had been about to ask next. He was slightly annoyed that Alfred had wandered off like that. A boy of his age ought to know better. He also wished that Alfred would show a little more restraint around holy men and authoritative figures. The boy tended to treat adults as if they were his equals, and anyone younger than himself as something to trample on.

“Oh, it’s no bother,” the tall monk said in an encouraging tone. “It’s good for the boy to ask questions.”

“I suppose...” Unconsciously, Tom pulled the ends of his cloak tightly together in front of himself, trying to block out the damp cold that was making him shiver. He’d had no work all winter and, as a result, he was now penniless. It was all the fault of his heartless employer, who had laid him off early in the fall with absolutely no advance notice. Despite the fact that Tom had been bold enough to demand severance pay from his employer’s son - a hotheaded, violent young man who had nearly run down Tom’s little girl with his horse - it still hadn’t been enough to support a family of four. 

Needing to create some sort of income for himself while he searched for work, Tom had invested all of his savings in a pig. It had been a healthy pig, pink and plump. He’d spent the better part of October and November raising and fattening that pig in order to sell it off at the market. A pig of that size would have gotten him a reasonably heavy handful of silver coins, enough to see his family through the winter, and spring, if necessary. However, much to his dismay, they’d been robbed of the pig while trekking through a lawless part of the forest. After that, Tom had spent the days and nights practically begging for work in whatever town or village they’d made their way through. And, when that hadn’t gotten him anywhere, he’d begun to sell off all his worldly possessions just to scrounge up enough change to buy a hot meal or two. But now he was broke. Without any money, he hadn’t been able to properly feed his family for the past few weeks, nor had he had anything to barter with to get himself a newer, warmer cloak. What was worse was that the bottom of his cloak was in tatters. He’d needed to tear off a pretty thick strip of it to wrap the baby in. His baby. The baby that was no longer in his care.

“Are you alright?”

Blinking the tears from his eyes, Tom looked up to see that the monk was gazing at him kindly with concern. He had a resonating, commanding voice, and an air of authority about him that seemed to indicate that he might be the one in charge. He was a little taller than Tom, with a high forehead, short brown hair - save for the tonsure that left the top of his head bald - a choppily cut fringe, and blue eyes. As was expected of a monk, this one was also clean shaven, although judging by the stubble on his face it looked like he’d been putting off checking his appearance in the mirror today. His winter robe, while woven with a high quality wool, was a drab brown color mingled with the occasional white and grey. Monks were not the showy type so they left their fabrics alone instead of dying them pleasing colors, like the rest of the folk were keen on doing.

Once again, Alfred had taken it upon himself to make himself scarce, leaving Tom alone with the proposition that he was nervous about making. He couldn’t spare his feelings on the baby right now. The woman and children under his care needed his immediate attention, and the only way for him to financially support any of them was to find himself employment.

“I wish to speak with the new prior of Kingsbridge,” Tom requested, pretending like he hadn’t heard the monk’s question.

“Well, you’re speaking with him then. I’m Prior Philip and I just took charge of Kingsbridge a couple of weeks ago.”

“Then you’ll no doubt want to rebuild this cathedral. The section where the tower has collapsed is unsafe for use, and the rest of the building is on the verge of crumbling to pieces. The mortar is cracked, the stones laid unevenly, and the whole affair is leaning obscenely to one side.” It wasn’t difficult to sound offended by the untidy construct that Tom had just walked into. Recently having acquired the status of master builder, Tom honestly couldn’t stomach the sight of such a poorly constructed disgrace. “And, judging by how cold and damp it is in here, I’d guess that the person responsible for laying the foundation did a very bad job,” he added for effect.

“Ah, so you’re a master mason then. Nothing would please me more than to have this cathedral rebuilt,” Philip said in a bit of a dreamy voice. “But I’m afraid that this priory is in financial ruins. As much as I’d like to hire you for the job, we haven’t the funds to pay for any repairs,” Philip finished with a heavy sigh.

Tom staggered back a step, taking the news as a physical blow to the stomach. He had walked for days on end to reach this priory. There was nothing before or after it. Without this job, without any money to continue on, Tom was finished. He’d been giving what little rations he could dig up to the children and that woman. Now there would be nothing. Would he live long enough to see them starve to death? Or would he keel over first, sapped of all his strength and the will to live? How long could he continue to ignore the painful growling in his stomach, or the distracting fog in his head that was getting thicker by the day?

“Come, sit down and rest for a moment.”

The dark confines of the cathedral seemed to push inwards on Tom, crushing his lungs and making it difficult to breathe. He barely felt the arm that wrapped around his shoulders, guiding him to sit down on one of the rotten benches facing the altar. When the prior sat down beside him, the bench creaked and moaned, making Tom feel even more miserable. This was without a doubt the ugliest, dirtiest, sorriest excuse for a church that he’d ever had the misfortune of entering. His only consolation was the warmth of Philip’s body up against his right side. The prior had yet to withdraw his supportive arm, and that thick woolly robe, regardless of how old and worn it looked, felt warm and reassuring.

“You and your family may stay here for the night. You’ll be fed and given a warm place to sleep. You can consider your options in the morning.”

Monks were well known for their generosity and hospitality. While they might indirectly try to encourage their guests to leave the following morning, mainly to make room for the next group of weary travellers who might be passing by, they would not force a family with children to move on until they were able. So Philip had made no mention of Tom hitting the road after breakfast in the morning. That thought should have cheered Tom up, but all it did was make him feel more worthless and pathetic. He wanted to work to earn his keep. He hadn’t been raised to leech off of the kindness of others.

“Thank you for your kindness, Prior Philip,” Tom accepted graciously. It wasn’t Philip’s fault that Tom couldn’t find work. After regaining his strength, Tom might be able to pick up a job building houses for the rich in the next city. Except that he had no desire to build houses, or anything for the rich for that matter. His dream - his calling - was to build a beautiful, tall cathedral that stretched upwards, towards heaven. It would be full of light and love, serving as a vestibule to the next life. If only the people had somewhere glorious to pray, perhaps they wouldn’t be so quick to draw their weapons and slaughter their fellow man.

“You are most welcome...?”

Tom realized that he had neglected to introduce himself. “Tom Builder.”

“Well then, Tom Builder, I will show you where the guesthouse is so that you may rest until supper time.”

When the prior stood up to lead the way, Tom became immediately aware of the loss of warmth at his side, as well as the absence of Philip’s arm around him. Regretting that the compassionate gesture had been withdrawn so soon, Tom had little choice but to follow the prior back out into the cold in search of his missing party members.

***

Nightfall was fast approaching by the time Philip finished his supper. He’d hoped to get more done while there was still light outside, but, as usual he’d had no such luck. Since taking over the position of Kingsbridge Prior, he’d been inundated with tasks and chores, paperwork and laborious work that kept him busy from sunup to sundown. Prior James, his predecessor, had left things in a terrible mess before passing away. The monks he was now in charge of were lazy, undisciplined, and disorganized. It had required a lot of effort and coaxing on his part to get them into some semblance of a routine, but he still had yet to gain the full cooperation of some of the older ones. The ones who were now too old, stubborn, and set in their ways to embrace change or feel that they were capable of improvement.

Helping Tom Builder and his family settle into the guest room had been another ordeal that had taken a considerable amount of energy. Tom himself seemed to be humble and grateful, having accepted Philip’s generosity at face value, but he was apparently the odd one out in his family. The youngest child in the group, a girl of approximately eight or nine years old, had been out of sorts, crying over some traumatic incident that no one else in the family had been willing to elaborate on. Earlier on, the older boy, Alfred, had led Philip to believe that he was somewhat educated, showing an interest in the church and its relics. However, when Philip had caught Alfred shoving his sister out of the way, and punching the younger boy in the shoulder, in order to get a bigger share of the bread and porridge that the monks had spared them, Philip lost all respect for the boy. Alfred was obviously a bully in the making and Philip had neither the time nor patience to spare on a hooligan. It was baffling where the boy had picked up such behavior because there wasn’t a trace of meanness in his father. Tom was kind and gentle, evenly distributing the food amongst the children first, and then the woman, before taking whatever was left for himself. Tom spoke calmly and rationally to Alfred, gathering the little girl up in his arms when she broke down into tears again. A quick-tempered boy such as Alfred might be beyond reach at this stage in life, but Tom certainly could not be faulted for his loving parenting techniques.

Philip didn’t know what to make of the other two members of Tom’s party - the red-headed boy who surrounded himself with silence, and the hostile looking woman who had a flair for the dramatic.

Alfred and the girl, Martha, bore a resemblance to their father, although Alfred more so than his sister. Alfred had his father’s piercing green eyes and dark brown hair, although Tom’s was thicker and wavy while Alfred’s was straight. Tom also had a short, dark brown beard that looked quite fetching on him, and he kept it immaculately clean, unlike most other men who were forever accumulating crumbs and dust in theirs. Both Tom and Alfred were leanly built, with Alfred looking like he would probably grow bigger than his father in a few years. At the age of fifteen, Alfred was an apprentice to his father and, as such, he was required to do all the heavy lifting and manual labor. Tom was a skilled craftsman and dedicated himself to designing architectural schematics, as well as ensuring that all areas of the building process were well organized and carefully implemented. Relying heavily on his intelligence and artistic talent, Tom would probably steer clear of any of the grunt work in order to protect his hands.

The second boy whom Tom had introduced as Jack was definitely of no relation to the master builder. The boy was young but nearly as tall as Tom. His skin was pale compared to Tom’s healthy olive complexion. There was no way that unruly red hair could have been inherited from a brunette. The wild woman exuding sexuality was doubtlessly Jack’s mother, but she couldn’t be the mother of the other two children. Philip wondered if she was even Tom’s wife, but he had been too polite to inquire about it. Whatever she was to Tom, Ellen was clearly no fan of the church. She’d made her disdain known the instant Philip had cursed her with his presence. And being told that she was not welcome anywhere near the church or monastery hadn’t improved her attitude any. Philip had tried to reason with her, explaining that women were excluded from any section of the compound that was frequented by the monks due to the distraction that they might cause. Her reaction to his explanation had been to tell him to go screw himself, which he had taken offence to.

During the altercation with Ellen, Philip had glanced sideways at Tom, hoping that the master builder might intervene in what had quickly snowballed into a battle of wits. Tom had made one attempt to calm Ellen down, perhaps for Philip’s benefit, but he’d been cowed into silence when Ellen had told him not to meddle in affairs that he had no knowledge of. What kind of man allowed his woman to dictate what he could and couldn’t say in front of an outsider? Philip was intrigued by the mystery surrounding Tom’s family. He wished to learn more about them, particularly about the relationship that Tom had with Ellen, but he didn’t have the luxury of sifting through the gossip of others. He had a priory to run that required his full concentration.

Philip leaned forward so that he could benefit more from the candlelight that was illuminating the parchment paper laid out on his desk. He was petitioning the bishop of Kingsbridge for more funds - again. As much as he hated to admit it to himself, he had the sneaking suspicion that Bishop Waleran Bigod had zero interest in the Kingsbridge Priory.

When Philip was about a third of the way through his missive, he paused to sniff and scratch his nose. Something was irritating his sinuses, something foul and malodorous.

“Oh, please God, don’t let the kitchen be on fire,” Philip pleaded aloud as the acrid smell of smoke wafted into the second floor study that he was presently occupying. He knew the smell of smoke far too well, having seen many a kitchen and stable go up in flames over the years. Grease fires in the kitchen were far too common nowadays, especially in kitchens where lazy monks saw no point in scrubbing down the walls and floors. But, when Philip turned to the window, he saw that the smoke was not filtering upwards from the second floor of the monastery. No, it was billowing outwards from the blazing inferno that the building opposite the monastery had become. The cathedral was on fire!

 


	2. Chapter 2

Upon reaching ground level, Philip was welcomed by the sight of a conflagration symbolic of the pits of hell. The fire consuming the church was like a roaring menace, racing up the walls of the church, wickedly dancing along the long slats that made up the wooden roof, and roasting the innards of the holy building like a damned bonfire.

Most of the monks were outside in their hastily donned robes, watching the blaze in disbelief. The monks who required extra effort to get out of their beds in the morning were slow to join their brethren, stumbling out into the frigid night air with their eyes red and bleary. One glance at the mass of glowing flames engulfing the cathedral and those tired eyes grew so large and exaggerated that they would have been comical under any other circumstances.

Philip caught sight of Tom standing towards the front of the crowd. The master builder had apparently rushed outside in a hurry because he wasn’t wearing his cloak overtop his hastily belted tunic, and the laces to his soft calf-high boots were undone. If the entire compound hadn’t been roasting hot thanks to the fire, Philip would have ordered Tom to return inside and get properly dressed. Come to think of it, if he started with Tom, he would have to continue down the line with the five monks who had run outside barefoot, and one of the senior monks who cluelessly had his robe on backwards. 

How could this have happened? The cathedral may have been in a dreadful state, but it had held up for years without incident. Philip moved closer to ask Tom if he had any insight into what had ignited the fire, but he ended up speechless when he saw the expression on the master builder’s face. Tom looked utterly devastated by the fire, staring into the depths of the flames with his eyes wide and his lips parted in an unvoiced protest. Remembering quickly that Tom had children, Philip grasped him by the shoulder to get his attention.

“Where is your family?” Philip frantically asked.

For a second, Tom just stared at him, uncomprehending. Then he pointed back towards the guesthouse where the woman and children were cowering.

Satisfied that no harm had befallen his guests, Philip rushed over to Brother Cuthbert, the cellarer. “We have to get the relic of Saint Adolphus to safety,” he urged.

“You can’t go in there.”

Philip glanced back over his shoulder to see that Tom was looking at him sharply, having gotten over the initial shock of seeing the cathedral on fire. What a bizarre fluke that the church Tom had wanted to rebuild should catch on fire after he was denied the opportunity to work on it. Philip didn’t believe in coincidences. He believed in miracles and divine fate. But he also didn’t believe that Tom was capable of arson, or any other malicious act for that matter.

“We must go in there,” Philip insisted, turning back to Cuthbert. It was his monastic duty to ensure the safety of the remains of Saint Adolphus. Without them, there would be no spiritual presence to protect and guide the faithful inhabitants of Kingsbridge.

“The roof is going to fall in,” Tom protested. “The entire structure could collapse at any moment.”

“Then we will just have to go in and get out as quickly as possible.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Before Tom could move forward to assist him in the matter, Philip stopped him by holding up his hand in refusal. “You will stay here and see to it that your family remains far from the fire.” Then, lowering his voice, he cast a short glance in Ellen’s direction. “And, Tom, would you be so kind as to request that Ellen properly clothe herself before entering a communal area?” The second that Ellen’s haunting pale eyes honed in on him from a distance, Philip looked away. Fire or no fire, he couldn’t have a woman whose ample bosom was practically falling out of her low cut chemise sharing the same space as a group of celibate men.

Tom followed Philip’s gaze, becoming flustered upon noticing what Ellen was wearing, or rather not wearing.

Ignoring whatever else Tom was about to say, Philip rushed towards the burning building with Cuthbert in tow.

***

Morning had broken by the time a team of volunteers managed to put out the fire. On the one hand, they were incredibly lucky to have stopped it from spreading to the monastery. On the other, as Tom had predicted, they were now without a place of worship. Mere seconds after Philip had escaped the burning building with Cuthbert, the entire cathedral caved in.

Tom watched from a distance while Philip cautiously edged around the outskirts of the scorched rubble. Perhaps the prior was confirming that the building was a total loss, or maybe he was searching for artifacts that may have survived the fire. Whatever his purpose, Philip looked crestfallen at the destruction of the cathedral that had been left in his care.

From what Tom had heard, Philip had only been prior of Kingsbridge for a little less than a month. According to Remigius, the subprior, Philip had stormed into the priory with his lofty ideals and harsh disciplinarian rule, doing his utmost to upset the harmony that Remigius had worked so hard to establish. Remigius accused Philip of being too arrogant and prideful, and even went so far as to blame him for the fire last night.

 _God has punished Philip for his swollen pride_ , Remigius had snickered as he watched Philip pacing up and down the church ruins, categorizing the damage.

Feeling naturally loyal to Philip after the prior had taken care of him and his family, Tom hadn’t been able to hold his tongue. _How does the tenth Commandment go again? You must not be envious of your neighbor’s goods... or something to that effect?_ Tom wasn’t overly fond of arguments or conflict, but he had thought it in bad taste for Remigius to be taking shots at a man who had already been knocked down. After listening to Remigius air his list of grievances against Philip, Tom had come to the conclusion that there was probably no truth to the rat-faced man’s accusations. The subprior’s desire to oust Philip in order to gain the position of prior for himself was transparent.

“Where are we going to conduct our services?” Philip muttered to himself as he stopped beside Tom. He dragged his hands down his face, either out of frustration, or in an attempt to wipe the soot and sweat away. He’d come out of the fire as filthy as a horse that had fallen into the mud, but he seemed oblivious to the way he looked, and smelled.

“The crypt is still intact,” Tom offered helpfully. “You could use it for your services until the new cathedral is built.” He had inspected the underground crypt himself, using the opportunity to teach Jack - not Alfred - the methods for checking the structural integrity of a building. Alfred had been overjoyed to see the church burn to the ground, knowing that it meant Tom’s chances for employment had greatly increased. So Alfred hadn’t bothered to lift a finger in putting out the fire or surveying the damages afterwards. Only Jack had seemed to appreciate how pitiful a monastery of monks was without a church. Jack had been the one who stuck by Tom’s side all night, following Tom’s instructions for first putting out the fire, and then for clearing whatever stray rocks and timber had fallen into the cloisters. Tom had been too busy maintaining order amongst the panicking monks to reprimand his biological son for not helping out, which wasn’t to say that he wasn’t incredibly disappointed in the boy’s attitude.

“What new cathedral? We haven’t even the money to clean up this mess,” Philip moaned. “This is the devil’s handiwork.”

“The devil may have been responsible for burning down your cathedral, but God sent you a master builder to build you a new one.” Tom waited for his suggestive comment to rouse Philip out of his depression. At the same time, he fought extra hard to remain in control of his own emotions. While his intentions were still as pure as they had ever been, he couldn’t bury the shame of his own dishonorable thoughts. Distraught over the poverty that his family was forced to endure, and fearful for the future, Tom had been the one to wish for the destruction of the church. He had specifically wished for a bolt of lightning to strike it down in the middle of the night. Seeing the church on fire not more than an hour after he’d made his wish, Tom had been horrified to think that the devil may have answered his prayers. However, after everyone had been accounted for, and there had been no reports of injuries, Tom began to wonder if perhaps God had taken pity on him and his family.

“Tom, you’re not listening to me. Our coffers are empty.”

On the contrary, Tom had heard every single word Philip had said to him. The priory was in dire straits with not a penny to spare. Tom really didn’t need Philip to rehash over the details that Remigius had already spitefully shared. Money was not Tom’s primary objective, it never had been. His dream was to create a beautiful cathedral while managing to keep his family fed and clothed, with a roof over their heads. That was all he wanted.

“I will work for food and lodging. You can pay my wages whenever you’re able.” That was the arrangement that Tom had worked out with Jack. Had Ellen’s son not given Tom the idea, Tom might have foolishly agreed to work for nothing at all. Such was his desire to build his cathedral. He would be willing to forfeit all else in a moment’s weakness just to see his dream come true.

Philip stared emptily at Tom as if he had just spoken in tongues. “You would work without pay?” He asked in disbelief.

“Until you are able to pay me,” Tom reiterated. He could barely contain his excitement at the prospect of finally being granted his wish that he almost said yes without thinking.

A brief pause followed in which Philip seemed to be mulling over the proposal. He was no doubt trying to calculate how long it would take to build a new cathedral, and how much money it would cost. That would likely be followed by the length of time he would have to employ Tom without pay. A man of Philip’s character would not be entirely comfortable with using Tom’s services for free, of that Tom was certain, but he would ultimately agree to the terms because he wanted a new cathedral built just as badly as Tom did. Tom could see it in his eyes.

“How long would it take you to draw up the plans for this new cathedral?” Philip asked with poorly concealed anticipation.

“I could have them ready by tomorrow morning.”

“Show me as soon as you’re done. We’ll decide after I’ve seen them.”

Tom nodded, knowing that he’d already set the wheels in motion for a new cathedral. While Philip was doing his best to sound cautious and noncommittal, Tom could tell that his mind was made up. Drawing up the plans would be but a formality for Philip was gazing at Tom as if he were the answer to his prayers.


	3. Chapter 3

With the sun still slumbering below the horizon, Philip prepared himself for a long day’s work. He pushed himself out of the wooden chair that he had been sitting on, bereft of any cushions - those he had cast onto the floor - and stalked over to the glowing fireplace. The large comfortable prior’s bed with its feather mattress and soft linen sheets, curtained off with embroidered angels and saints, had seemed like too much of a reward when Philip felt like he needed to be punished. Sitting in a cramped position all night on the only misshapen chair in the room had seemed like it would suffice as penance, only after he had removed the cushions. However, he had only spent a couple of hours in the chair. The rest of the night he had been kept busy.

Philip pulled his still damp robe over his undertunic, grimacing when the end of the right sleeve stuck uncomfortably to his arm. He had hastily dunked it into a trough of water last night, scrubbing at it with a bar of multipurpose soap until his fingers had gone red and numb. Some of the material was singed along the sleeves and bottom, but he had successfully washed out the stench of smoke and dust. So now he was as clean as a monk could expect to be, although his wretched attire made him appear impoverished. Most of the masses wouldn’t pray to a god who allowed his faithful servants to roam around in burnt rags.

Philip felt somewhat responsible for the burning of the cathedral. Perhaps if he had given it a full inspection after becoming prior, he might have noticed any number of fire hazards lying in wait. Like candles that were placed too close to flammable objects. Namely cloth, partridge, or rotting wood.

What was worse than the destruction of the cathedral was the loss of the bones of Saint Adolphus. Unknown to anyone other than Cuthbert, Philip had failed in his attempt to safely retrieve the holy relics. The remains of Saint Adophus had been smashed to bits by a piece of falling timber, right before they had been engulfed in flames. Philip was still unsure over whether he ought to come forward and admit what had become of the beloved saint of Kingsbridge, or to do as Cuthbert had advised and lie about it. _Any old skull will do, so long as it is treated with reverence_ , Cuthbert had said. How was Philip, or anyone else for that matter, to know that the recently destroyed skull had actually belonged to Saint Adolphus in the first place?

Things had been so much simpler when Philip had been in charge of that isolated little monastery St.John-in-the-Forest, which was a cell of Kingsbridge Priory. But it was too late to return there now.

The morning was brisker than usual, or at least it felt that way to Philip. He had placed his robe as close to the fireplace as he dared, hoping it would be dry by morning. Well, now it was morning and the garment was still damp enough to make him shiver in the cold air. He found himself in a foul mood, having put Tom’s proposal out of his mind in favor of simmering in self recrimination. He was also feeling cynical. Tom would not have those plans ready for him by today. Realistically, no builder, regardless of skill or experience, would be able to throw such complex designs together overnight. It wouldn’t be Tom’s fault either for not being able to follow through on his promise. The master builder had spent all of yesterday delegating cleanup duties to Philip’s monks. On top of that, Tom had gone around the cathedral site making an inventory of all the materials he came across - in his head. If Tom hadn’t gone to bed exhausted afterwards, and forgotten to wake up again in order to work on the new cathedral plans, Philip could hardly fault him for it.

Philip headed straight for the dormitory, wanting to check on the newest addition to his flock. About a month ago, a baby had been found out in the forest, lying atop an unmarked grave, and had been brought back to Kingsbridge Priory to be raised as a monk. Why not?, Philip had originally thought. There were enough abandoned war orphans out in the countryside that nobody would be willing to claim one more. Philip and his brother had been raised by a monastery after their parents were ruthlessly murdered and they had turned out alright. So Philip saw nothing wrong with raising a child within the priory walls. The boy would never know hunger, hatred, or temptation. What more could a child ask for?

Halfway across the path leading to the dormitory, Philip stopped dead in his tracks. It was still fairly early, but not so dark outside that he couldn’t make out a familiar figure padding away from the dormitory. There was no mistaking Tom’s tattered cloak, not even with the hood pulled up over his head, or his particular gait. He was moving quietly, secretively, taking care not to step on anything that might make a sound and give him away. And it was no wonder that he was being so careful for he had the swathed baby in his arms. If it had been anyone else, warning bells would have gone off in Philip’s head. But with Tom, he felt an odd fascination at the sight of the master builder cradling the baby boy.

Johnny Eightpence had been the one to find the baby, returning to the priory with his new bundle of joy bouncing in his arms. Although a bit of a dullard, Johnny was mainly harmless, unless he was stealing from people. Johnny’s favorite target was animals and he stole them indiscriminately. A pig here and a dog there, he saw nothing wrong with liberating domesticated animals from human oppression. Philip had had to invoke one of the Ten Commandments - Thou shall not steal - to get through to Johnny. He believed that he was making some headway... but, then again, Johnny had come home with a baby.

Philip watched as Tom slowly made his way around the compound. The master builder did not seem to be in much of a hurry, nor did his intentions towards the baby appear suspicious. He merely looked like a father who was taking his son on a morning adventure, pointing out objects here and there, telling him stories of what had happened to the cathedral the night before, and then holding the boy up outside the horses’ stall so he could see inside. As for the baby, he cooed in excitement when one of the horse’s heads rose up to greet him, trying to stretch closer so that he could poke the steed with one of his stubby fingers. When Tom pulled him back and out of reach of the chomping horse’s teeth, the baby settled for combing his fingers through Tom’s beard instead.

When the hood slipped from Tom’s head, Philip was able to see the master builder’s expression. He was troubled to see the unshed tears of sorrow in those expressive green eyes, reminding him once again that he knew nothing of what Tom had suffered before turning up on his doorstep. But, despite the tears, the sadness in Tom’s heart seemed to be more muted than before. There was a more powerful emotion in control of him today - joy. Tom was so engrossed in his interaction with the baby that he didn’t notice Philip nearby, or the large, imposing figure of Johnny.

Philip caught Johnny’s arm as he went barreling past him, preventing the angry giant from mowing Tom down. “Leave him be,” he said as gently as he could.

“He has my baby,” Johnny grunted in anger.

“Jonathan isn’t your baby,” Philip said matter-of-factly. He had named the baby himself after the other monks revealed what Johnny was hiding beside his bedroll in the communal sleeping area. The baby looked like a Jonathan, and even Johnny had fallen into the habit of calling the child by name. “Jonathan was given to us by God so that we may help others.”

“I don’t understand,” Johnny protested in a huff, lowering his aggressive stance and switching to the mannerisms of a berated child.

“Jonathan is helping to ease Tom’s pain. Tom will return the boy when he is ready.”

“Will he clean the baby before returning him?” Johnny asked, sounding dubiously hopeful.

At that, Philip laughed. The thought of Tom cleaning up after a baby greatly amused him. “Perhaps if you ask him nicely.”

***

It was well before noon when Philip responded to a tentative knocking on his door. He had just returned from his rounds at the dormitory, ensuring that each and every monk was accounted for, including Jonathan. As expected, Tom had placed the baby back in the crib that Johnny had ‘acquired’, thinking that no one had missed Jonathan in the thirty or so minutes that they had spent together. Philip had ordered Johnny that under no circumstances was he to confront Tom about the incident. The baby was back safe and sound, and no harm had been done, so Johnny reluctantly agreed to pretend that he was none the wiser. And to allow Tom to get away with it again if the behavior should repeat itself.

“Tom!” Philip exclaimed when he opened the door to a fairly sleep deprived master builder. “I wasn’t expecting you so early.” Truth be told, he hadn’t been expecting Tom at all.

“It isn’t that early,” Tom said sheepishly. “I was hoping to come around before daybreak... but I got sidetracked.”

“I see,” was all Philip said, although he knew perfectly well what Tom had been sidetracked with.

“May I come in?”

“Oh, by all means.” Philip stood aside so that Tom could enter, giving him a wide berth when he spotted the heavy frames of plaster that Tom was having difficulty holding onto. _Now what is all this about?_ , he wondered.

Not waiting for Philip’s permission, Tom began to lay his burdens down on the prior’s dining table, one by one. At first, Philip paid no attention to what Tom was doing because he was caught up in his appraisal of the man himself. Tom was wearing a different tunic than he’d had on yesterday. Today he had chosen a slate blue tunic with long sleeves, leaving the slit below the collar open so that the bleached linen of his undertunic was also visible. While there wasn’t necessarily anything unusual about a man leaving collars undone and sleeves rolled up, Philip felt particularly distracted around Tom. He tended to notice little things about the master builder that he never would have paid attention to had it been anyone else. Like how that exact shade of blue complemented Tom’s eyes, or how the leather belt strapped to Tom’s waist accentuated the angular lines of his hips.

In the short time that Philip had known Tom, he had grown used to seeing him looking quite decent. His clothing was not new or expensive, but it was well looked after. Yesterday, Tom had also turned in for the night with his hair, face, and clothes blanketed in dust, chalk, and soot. Yet today he looked fresh and clean, as if he had recently bathed. Someone had taught the master builder to take pride in his appearance, as well as his surroundings. There were few men, save for monks and members of the aristocracy, who were that mindful of their personal hygiene and presentation. And, even then, Philip often caught some of the monks cutting corners when it came to cleanliness. In addition to Tom’s good etiquette, the master builder was also literate, which should have come as no surprise to Philip. He wouldn’t have thought that a man of Tom’s social standing would be able to read and write, but he had learned differently after surreptitiously watching the master builder flipping through a few tomes that they had rescued from the fire. Tom may have lingered on the same paragraph a lot longer than a monk would have, revealing that he had no access to books to practice and increase his reading speed, but the fact that he was capable of it was impressive nonetheless.

“Take a look at this one.”

“Hmm?” Philip blinked twice, then gave Tom a focused look that he had perfected over the years. The _I don’t know what on earth you just said, but I’m sure that it was fascinating_ look. Only Cuthbert, his longtime friend, would have been able to catch Philip in the act of feigning interest.

“There will be three arches,” Tom said excitedly as he indicated the detailed drawings that he’d etched into the plaster.

Noticing the intricate white lines on the plaster for the first time, Philip nearly bit his tongue in shock. These weren’t the hastily thrown together drawings of a generic church. They weren’t even something that a seasoned mason would have come up with. On the contrary, the designs were novel and revolutionary, something that Philip had never seen before.

“They’re pointed,” Philip blurted out, not knowing what else to say. “I’ve never seen pointed arches before.”

“They’ll better support the weight of the vault,” Tom explained.

“Is the tower safe at such a height? It’s twice as tall as the nave.”

“I’ve created reinforced buttresses to account for the tower’s height. A taller tower is more dramatic. It will appear to be reaching for the sky.”

“And the windows... they’re so... _large_.” No other word would come to mind.

“The windows need to be large to allow the light to enter.” Suddenly, Tom’s usually soft-spoken voice became quite animated and his eyes lit up with an intensity that he couldn’t temper. “This cathedral is going to be the halfway point to heaven - God’s anteroom - and the light ... the light is _everything_.”

The passion with which Tom spoke overwhelmed Philip. While the master builder might just see his cathedral design as a fancy dream needing to be fulfilled, Philip saw it for what it actually was - pure genius. And Tom himself...He was incredible. Philip had never laid eyes on a more beautiful creature.

“So... what do you think?” Tom asked as he backed away from his drawings to let Philip peruse them at his leisure. It was obvious that he was trying hard to sound confident when he was actually really nervous, desperate for Philip’s approval.

“What do I think?” Philip admired the perfection of Tom’s drawings, wondering how long they had taken the master builder to complete. “They’re extraordinary,” he breathed, observing Tom’s reaction out of the corner of his eye. Tom blushed with pleasure at the compliment but said nothing. Philip supposed that Tom was unused to receiving praise and didn’t know what to do with it.

Still reeling from Tom’s short, but emotive, presentation, Philip took a step towards him, threw both arms around him, and pulled him into a fierce embrace. All he could think about was how grateful he was to Tom for rescuing the cathedral, and therefore the priory. Kingsbridge would have a beautiful sanctum for the monks and people to pray in, and it would be like nothing anyone had ever seen before. The construction would be overseen by Tom, which would mean that Tom would be staying on site, indefinitely. Philip wasn’t thinking about how warm Tom felt in his arms, or how exquisite Tom’s fuzzy beard felt against his neck. And he wasn’t thinking at all when his right hand dropped to the small of Tom’s back, pressing him in even closer.

Caught up in the moment, Philip squeezed Tom tighter, thirstily inhaling the master builder’s unique scent of honey and some sort of fragrant herbs. At the back of his mind, a small voice warned him that such scents were often associated with women. And Tom had a wife. But Philip had been deprived of these sensations for so long, and Tom felt so right in his embrace, that he couldn’t force himself to let go.

“Philip?” Tom sounded confused and unsure, not knowing what to make of Philip’s uncalled for display of affection. However, he wasn’t refusing the embrace or giving any indication that it was making him uncomfortable. Had he felt discomfited by the physical contact, he wouldn’t have wrapped his arms around Philip’s back, welcoming and prolonging the gesture.

Philip had hugged many monks and members of the secular world for various reasons over the years. Comfort, camaraderie, and support being some of the most common. And in that time, he had never experienced any attraction towards any of the men or women whom he had interacted with... save for a brief period in his youth that he vowed never to look back on. But holding Tom tightly in his arms had awakened a desire in him that should have been long since dead. A longing that he now knew had only been dormant, waiting for the opportunity - for someone like Tom - to set it free.

Had Philip’s will been stronger, he might have fought against temptation, releasing Tom and returning to the matter at hand - the cathedral. Unfortunately for the both of them, Tom was too alluring, and Philip was a man suffering from withdrawal.

Thinking that he might be damning himself, but not able to resist, Philip stroked his left hand over Tom’s face, delighting in the soft fuzz of Tom’s beard bristling against his palm, before he held Tom still in order to kiss him. And that is when things went terribly wrong.

It wasn’t that Tom rejected him. Had Tom been averse to the kiss, his soulful green eyes wouldn’t have been filled with anticipation and curiosity. Philip would have stopped if Tom had seemed the least bit reticent about what was going to happen. But Tom allowed the kiss to happen, perhaps even encouraging it by doing nothing to prevent Philip’s lips from grazing his own. It started off innocent enough, close lipped and chaste. Then Philip slipped his tongue past Tom’s lips to explore the master builder’s hot mouth... and that’s when the door to Philip’s room swung inwards.

Philip hadn’t scheduled any other meetings for the day, nor was he accustomed to having visitors intrude on his privacy without knocking, so he hadn’t bolted the door. He might have done so had he anticipated the intimate act that he would find himself involved in.

The sound and motion of the door caused Philip to abruptly break apart from Tom, jerking his head in the direction of the entrance to see who had the nerve to disrupt what he had been up to. He should have felt guilty about his momentary lapse of judgment, but instead he was boiling with anger under the surface.

“Oh, I beg your pardon. Am I disturbing something?”

Automatically, Philip grew cold inside as he came face to face with the stony visage of Bishop Waleran. Having been manipulated by Waleran no more than two weeks ago, Philip was familiar with the man’s dishonest ways. Waleran didn’t seem to be above lying, cheating, or blackmailing to achieve his goals. And he had just caught the new prior of Kingsbridge in an undeniably forbidden act with another man. Philip had just given the bishop more leverage to hold over his head in the future, if he didn’t choose to defrock Philip on the spot for his lecherous behavior.

“N—no,” Philip stammered, chancing a glance at Tom. The master builder’s face was flushed but his eyes downcast. He was frozen on the spot, sensing the danger that Waleran represented through Philip’s own reaction. “Tom, go,” Philip hissed under his breath. “I’ll find you later.”

Tom didn’t need to be told twice. He abandoned his drawings and rushed past Waleran while keeping his head low, hoping that the bishop wouldn’t look too closely at him.

True to his serpent-like nature, Waleran made a show of keeping his gaze politely off to one side, but he dropped the charade at the last minute to get a good look at Tom before the master builder could disappear from sight. “Wasn’t that the master builder you recommended for the new cathedral?” Waleran asked with exaggerated surprise.

 _Here it comes_ , Philip thought with dread. This was the moment where Waleran was either going to curse him for his indiscretion, or use it against him.

“I’ve just hired him for the job.” Clasping his hands together behind his back so that Waleran wouldn’t see them shaking, Philip pretended like he had done nothing wrong, having no choice but to play the bishop’s game.

“Well done,” Waleran said with false enthusiasm. “As it turns out, I have found a way where you might be able to get the funding for your new cathedral. Tomorrow we will set off for Winchester to see the king. I am positive that he will grant your request for a new cathedral.”

“The king?” Philip repeated in disbelief. “Must we go directly to Winchester to see him? Wouldn’t it be simpler, and less presumptuous, to just send him a formal request?”

Waleran’s disgusted expression said that it would not be acceptable to just write to the king. “Perhaps I was mistaken,” he began in a dismissive tone. “I had assumed that you would be eager to find a way to pay Tom Builder’s wages.”

“I am. I was just trying to save you a day’s journey.” Philip fumbled for something else to say to smooth over the tension in the room. He had already broken out into a cold sweat upon discovering that Waleran knew Tom’s name.

“Sometimes you think too hard, Philip. I expect that you’ll be ready to leave by morning.” It was not a question. Having gotten his way, as he always did without fail, Waleran turned on his heel and left Philip to fret over the mess he had gotten himself into.


	4. Chapter 4

“Did something go wrong?”

“No. Why do you ask?” Tom patted down the straw pallet belonging to the loft in the guesthouse, repositioning the lumps so that he would have a fairly level surface to sleep on. There were many raised areas in the pallet, alternating with pockets of emptiness, so smoothing it all out was taking quite some time. In all honesty, there was absolutely nothing wrong with the well filled pallet, or the stuffed potato sack that was passing off as a pillow. The monks had been more than kind in providing them with an above average dwelling to stay in. Compared to the hard wooden floors, and the cold forest ground, that Tom and his family had spent a good percentage of the fall and winter sleeping on, a straw pallet felt almost too soft to be real. Adjusting the pallet just gave Tom something to do, something other than face Ellen.

“Then why is it that you’ve been acting like a mute ever since you left your meeting with the prior this morning?” Ellen stood at the opposite side of the pallet with her hands on her hips, giving Tom a disconcerted look.

“I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“No, that isn’t all. I know you, Tom Builder, and I know that you’re hiding something.”

Why was she so annoyingly perceptive? Although Tom had only known Ellen for a little over a month, having spent less than half of that time traveling with her, she could read him so well. Most of the time, Ellen’s ability to anticipate what Tom needed was a blessing. However, there were occasions when she would pry or overstep her boundaries, especially when it came to giving unsolicited advice. If there was one thing Tom didn’t need right now, it was Ellen’s opinion on what had transpired between the prior and himself. Tom was still trying to figure out how he felt about being kissed by Philip, never mind what Ellen might think of it.

“I’m only asking out of concern for you,” Ellen said in her usual frank manner. “The church has a way of casting misfortune on those who get too close to it.”

Tom sighed. If Ellen was going to go off on a rant about how evil and twisted the church was - again - then he was just going to go to sleep. He disliked arguing with her, and loathed upsetting or making her unhappy even more. She was an undeniably brash and forthright woman, as rare as they came where females were concerned. That was part of the reason why Tom liked her so much. He envied her free spirit and her fearlessness. He just wished that she had been blessed with good manners instead of a sharp wit. Her tendency to occasionally speak with unbridled vulgarity made him bristle inwardly, but he chose to ignore it, just as he did Alfred’s growing hostility. As for Ellen, she usually stopped once she’d had her fill of name calling, and Alfred... Tom was praying that his son would have a change of character by the time he turned sixteen.

“Are you going to sleep like that?”

“Like what?”

Tom stretched out on the pallet in his undertunic and looked up at her, using his forearm to block the stinging light from the candles on the wall. His eyes were strained and his body felt lifeless. He had no need for the candlelight, but Ellen required it to move around the loft, where there were no windows. Tom worried that if he didn’t get some sleep soon he might start to hallucinate. And hallucinating meant reliving the night that his wife had died during childbirth. He would rather have Ellen furious with him than have those memories resurface again. 

A wicked grin tugged at the corners of Ellen’s mouth as she looked pointedly at Tom’s crotch. “Unsatisfied,” she replied, not bothering to be polite about it.

 _Oh Lord!_ Tom took hold of the worn blanket at the foot of the pallet and hastily pulled it up over himself, as high up as it would go. Despite his exhausted state, his thoughts of Philip had stirred a reaction in him that was entirely inappropriate. What was worse was that Ellen would take it as a sign that he was in the mood for some fooling around when that was precisely what he didn’t want at the moment. His body was still reacting to the memory of being close to Philip, of being kissed by Philip - not Ellen. Allowing Ellen to have her way with him, as was her wont, would only confuse him more.

“Ellen, I can’t,” Tom protested when the insatiable brunette began to crawl across the pallet to get to him.

“Your mouth says one thing, but _this_ says another,” Ellen reached under the blanket with a questing hand, sliding it up Tom’s bare thigh.

Before Ellen could reach her prize, Tom rolled over, onto his stomach. “Enough,” he said as firmly as he dared. It wasn’t in his nature to be mean, not even when he was pushed to his limits, so he left it at that. Besides, he was the one who was acting strange, not Ellen. As Ellen had earlier accused him, he had started to behave weirdly after they’d entered the priory. She had summed it up to him being influenced by the sexually inept monks that they now found themselves surrounded by. She suspected that he was feeling constricted by the sterile monastic atmosphere. Impotency was contagious, as she put it. But that was not it at all. While Tom could not deny that he had begun to feel and act differently upon entering the priory, it had absolutely nothing to do with the spiritual environment, and everything to do with Philip.

“Very well then.” Ellen withdrew her hand and rose to her feet again, sounding affronted. “You won’t get another offer tonight, so you needn’t bother me if you change your mind.”

That was a relief! For once, Ellen’s strong-willed temper had saved Tom from further solicitations in the night.

At the sound of Ellen stomping down the wobbly wooden stairs leading to the first floor of the guesthouse, Tom worriedly called after her. “Where are you going?”

“To join Jack and your children in the refectory for supper.”

“Supper isn’t for another two hours, at least. And Prior Philip requested that you stay out of the monastery,” Tom reminded her. “Someone will bring you your supper, just as they did your dinner.”

“I will not be told where I can and cannot eat. Not by Prior Philip, and not by you.” Having said her peace, Ellen took off outside, slamming the heavy oak door behind her.

That woman was a handful. She was like a wild creature that could not be tamed, and Tom had been an idiot to think that he might be able to tone down her prickly disposition.

Tom lay there for a while, with his eyes closed, wondering why Philip had not come to him by now. Did the prior regret his actions? Were they just the result of a man who had been tormented by his abstinence? Maybe Tom had just been a convenient outlet for Philip’s sexual frustrations. As Ellen was so fond of saying, the monks liked to fuck men, and there weren’t many men to choose from in the monastery, so Philip might have latched onto the first available option out of desperation. But, there were two problems with that theory. One was that Tom didn’t truly believe that all monks were lascivious perverts who participated in overtly sexual acts as often as they prayed. The other problem Tom had with Ellen’s description of monastic practices was that it cheapened the aborted kiss that he had shared with Philip. That kiss had been spontaneous and genuine, not wild and impulsive. And it had been... nice.

If Philip had such strong feelings for Tom... If he were sincerely attracted to Tom, why was he hesitating in seeking him out? Could it have something to do with that bishop? Tom had felt mortified when that purple robed bishop had invaded their privacy back in Philip’s room. He had assumed that a man of Philip’s position would command respect, but the way that bishop had barged into what was supposed to be Philip’s private space spoke volumes of how little he thought of Philip as both a prior and a man. Also, the manner in which Philip had excused Tom had been unquestionably abnormal. Tom would have understood it if Philip had shouted at him in disgust for the benefit of the bishop. That would have made it appear like Tom had been the one attempting to corrupt Philip, and not the other way around. When Tom imagined what Philip may have shouted at him, he cringed, immediately putting it out of his mind. To have Philip turn on him like that would have hurt him immensely, and Tom was certain that Philip hadn’t wanted to intentionally hurt him.

Had Tom not felt so drained, he would have continued to dissect Philip’s behavior. But the events of the last two days had been too much for him. The second his eyes closed, he fell into a deep, yet troubled, sleep.

***

“Tom! Tom, wake up!”

Tom stirred, feeling as if he were trapped beneath the surface of a still lake, weighted down by his own listlessness. He knew that he should respond to the frantic voice by his ear, but he couldn’t muster enough energy to open his eyes, much less operate his voice.

“Tom!”

This time, there was a hand on his shoulder, gripping him persuasively. The touch was familiar, as was the insistent voice that now spoke with a hint of exasperation. Tom managed to make a sleepy sound of acknowledgement, buying himself a few more seconds of indulgence, before he opened his eyes to confirm that it was indeed Philip who had disturbed his sleep.

Philip was sitting on the edge of the pallet with a look of grim determination on his face. Even groggily battling off sleep, Tom realized how peculiar it was for the prior to have entered a private lodging place without permission. While the guesthouse belonged to the priory, it temporarily became the property of whoever happened to be staying in it at the time. That meant that Tom could refuse Philip access to it, until such time as he was evicted from it. Philip disregarding Tom’s limited rights to the guesthouse indicated that he was very displeased with something, and Tom feared that he himself might be that something.

Tom’s insecurity must have shown on his face because Philip’s expression quickly softened, and the hand on Tom’s shoulder began to stroke up and down his arm to calm him. “It’s nothing like that,” Philip reassured him. “I knocked, but nobody answered, so I let myself in. I was concerned about you after...” He bowed his head in shame, and then looked back at Tom with his blue eyes shining with conviction. “I apologize for how rudely I dismissed you from my room earlier on today. I can only imagine what you must have thought.”

Shaking off the last remnants of sleep, but not feeling the least bit refreshed by how little he had gotten of it, Tom sat up. As he had predicted, Philip’s hand left his arm, but that was soon replaced by Philip’s arm around his shoulders. There was no question that Tom preferred the intimacy of being held so close to the prior. It also helped to quell his unfounded fear of Philip casting him out for not resisting that kiss. A small part of him had fretted over Philip blaming him for allowing the kiss to happen. Although it didn’t make much sense to him, not even now, he hadn’t known what to think or feel after he’d seemingly been forgotten for more than half the day.

“I thought that you must have come to your senses.” When Philip stiffened at that remark, Tom hurriedly explained himself. “Is it not a sin for a prior, or any member of the clergy for that matter, to engage in—?”

Philip silenced Tom by abruptly holding up his hand. “I’ve heard quite enough profanity from your wife to last me a lifetime,” he warned.

“I wasn’t going to use profanity,” Tom said quietly, not correcting Philip’s incorrect assumption regarding his association with Ellen. While he wasn’t married to her, and he didn’t love her, he felt forever indebted to her for how she had rescued him from death, and his children from abandonment. He would continue to act chivalrously towards her, and look out for her son for as long as she required it. He hated misleading Philip about his involvement with Ellen, but the alternative would not be pleasant for Ellen, or Jack. “I was merely going to state that it isn’t common for a prior to express his feelings towards another so...blatantly.”

“And?”

“And I thought that you might be regretting your actions, which is why I haven’t seen nor heard from you until now.”

“Do you regret my actions?” Philip asked plainly, his question making it clear that he cared about Tom’s opinion more than anything else.

Tom had spent the better part of the day trying to feel remorseful about having led Philip on, whether inadvertently or not, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had felt a spark between them that first day they met in the cathedral, and the passing of time had only fanned the flames of that attraction, not made it weaker. “No,” he replied without needing to think about it.

Philip took Tom’s right hand between both of his own, clasping it firmly, and Tom felt again the man’s warmth. Not just physical, but also spiritual. Just as he hadn’t be able to protest when Philip kissed him, he found it impossible to pull away from a presence that made him feel truly needed and desired.

“Then, to answer your question, no. It is not a sin for a member of the clergy to participate in carnal acts, but it is prohibited. That is why we take the vow of celibacy. Honoring the vow is a reflection of our piety. Breaking the vow can have consequences, like being shunned by one’s peers... or defrocked... but it depends on the circumstances. I don’t believe that you were sent to me as a temptation, Tom. I was in a low place after taking over the position of Kingsbridge Priory, and being outwitted by Bishop Waleran - the man whom you had the displeasure of running into today. The future of this priory was looking bleak, that is, until you appeared. You are a beacon of hope in an otherwise dark reality. You helped the monks on the night of the fire, heedless for your own safety. You designed a cathedral fit for God to inhabit, and you agreed to work for nothing except the basic necessities when any other man would have walked away in discontent. And I have also heard of how you defend me from my nemesis, the subprior Remigius. You are an ally and a comfort to me, and I believe that God would not have sent you to me if he didn’t want me to have you.”

Tom was both flattered and embarrassed to hear Philip justifying the reasons why he had no problem with pursuing a relationship with him. But by Philip’s own definition, he had just admitted that the rest of his brethren might not see a romance blossoming between them as anything other than blasphemy. Bishop Waleran had already caught them in a very compromising position. Would he use it against Philip?

“Is Bishop Waleran an enemy of yours?” Tom treaded lightly with his question, leaving out his own interpretation of the passive-aggressive encounter between Waleran and Philip. He closed his eyes and rested his head against Philip’s shoulder, comforted again by the smell of old wool combined with the scent of the prior himself. Philip was a tad on the sweaty side, implying that he had been hard at work during the many hours that Tom had spent missing him. About him clung the smell of horses, leather, and incense, which meant that Philip had been in the stables, and then at the tanner’s, before dragging himself off to lead prayers in the crypt. Or perhaps it had been in the opposite order. Tom was only guessing, and he was too tired to put much of an effort into it.

“He has not clearly labeled himself as such - no.” Despite having denied it, Philip’s tone was clear evidence of how he regarded Waleran with a fair amount of disdain. “But he is an unscrupulous man who seems to put his own ambitions above that of the clergy. There is also something about him that I don’t... like.”

“Or trust,” Tom added for Philip, sensing that there was a lot more that the prior wanted to say about Waleran. Only Philip’s upbringing as a docile member of the church kept him from stating the full extent of his misgivings about Waleran. There could be no accusations without proof. 

“We are to leave for Winchester tomorrow, the bishop and I. He is overly confident that we will be able to successfully petition the king for the funds that we need to build the cathedral.”

“Winchester? But that’s so far away. You’ll be gone for days.” Tom became distracted when Philip began to stroke his hair, but he lost his entire train of thought when the prior’s lips brushed against his forehead in a fleeting kiss. It wasn’t so much what Philip was doing as the way he was doing it. Philip seemed to prioritize putting Tom at ease and making him feel appreciated before gratifying his own desires.

“That is why I want you to remain vigilant. I can’t say what his stake is in this cathedral because, as you may or may not know, he resides in Shiring - not Kingsbridge. But, in the offhand chance that he wishes to reassert his power over Kingsbridge, which is his right, he may very well use you against me.”

“I would never betray you,” Tom vowed.

“I can see that,” Philip said with some humor. “Remigius thinks that your loyalty to me is the result of some sort of personality flaw. I, on the other hand, think that it’s endearing.” Having said that, Philip leaned further onto the pallet, planting both hands on either side of Tom’s waist. Left with nowhere to go, Tom could only tremble with anticipation as Philip moved in close to kiss him. But Philip didn’t kiss him right away. The prior just gazed down at him for a while, admiring him, a faint smile playing upon his lips. Philip was quite handsome in his own right, what with those calm blue eyes, and those gentle features of his. Tom doubted that a man like that could ever be capable of violence, but still he felt nervous. More nervous than he had felt on the night he lost his virginity to his dearly departed wife. There was a confident, dominating aura surrounding Philip that made Tom feel vulnerable and exposed. As if the man could see right through him with that penetrative gaze of his. “You are irresistible,” Philip said at last, closing the gap between them to kiss Tom full on the mouth.

There was nothing timid or awkward about the kiss. Philip seemed to know exactly what he was doing, and what he wanted. He lay halfway atop Tom, with one arm bracing the back of Tom’s head, and the other locked around Tom’s waist. His lips were firm, yet gentle, against Tom’s, applying just the right amount of pressure to allow him access to Tom’s mouth. When Tom parted his lips in invitation, Philip slid his tongue between them, and then they were kissing each other with abandon. The sensation of Philip’s tongue tangling with his own caused Tom to instinctively moan into the kiss, wrapping both arms around Philip’s neck to pull him in closer. In response, Philip deepened the kiss and changed his position ever so slightly. His fingers curled in Tom’s hair, and he climbed onto the pallet to straddle Tom’s hips, his rough robe hiking up to his knees to reveal the drab stockings he wore underneath . Tom absently wondered if Philip had been intimate with another man before. The prior’s knowledge of how to kiss and touch another man, as well as his apparent confidence in doing so, alluded to the fact that he had experience in this area. When Philip pushed the blanket aside so that he could gain access to Tom’s undertunic, Tom found himself quivering with desire. Philip’s hand slipped under the hem of the undertunic, which fell just below Tom’s knees, and pushed it out of his way. Tom felt Philip’s strong hand on the back of his calf, before it ghosted over his knee, and then explored even higher . But then, Philip stopped.

“I’m sorry,” Philip apologized, ending the kiss with his face suffused with pleasure, and his hand halfway up Tom’s thigh. “I seem to have no semblance of restraint around you.”

Tom’s throat was too dry for him to comment. He had felt nothing when Ellen placed her hand on him earlier, but Philip’s touch seemed to set his nerve endings on fire. He lay there feeling flustered and craving more, but willing to accept that things would go no further tonight. He wished to savor every moment with Philip, and the slower they took things, the more he had to look forward to.

Philip seemed reluctant to release Tom for his hand stayed where it was, and he gave no indication that he was about to get up anytime soon. “Are you hungry?” He asked as his hand caressed Tom’s thigh. His hand was dry and rough, like his monk’s clothing, and there was a strength to it that could not have been achieved by praying. Aside from the cleanup effort that the monks had taken part in after the fire, Tom had spotted them performing arduous tasks between prayer time. Activities like mucking out the stables, carrying overflowing buckets of water to and from the kitchen, and chopping wood. Those chores were supposed to fall upon the shoulders of the hired help, but Kingsbridge Priory didn’t seem able to afford any servants. Then again, maybe Philip was forcing the monks to do their own manual labor because it made them more pious. Whatever the reason, all that extra work had made Philip physically tougher than he looked.

“What time is it?” The flickering candles were providing a lot less light than before, and there didn’t appear to be any light coming from outside to assist them in brightening the small guesthouse. It had to be quite late.

“Sometime after five. We just finished Vespers not too long ago.”

“Then I’ve missed supper,” Tom said in dismay. He knew the monks’ mealtime rules all too well. No food for latecomers. Supper was served early to preserve candles, which happened to be one of the priory’s major expenses. Anyone who strolled into the refectory more than ten minutes after supper had been served could expect to be sent to bed with an empty stomach.

“Not necessarily.” Philip stole another quick kiss from Tom, before pulling him out of bed. “Come downstairs. I’ve brought you a loaf of wheat bread, salted fish, and a wedge of cheese. The ale isn’t bad, although it is a bit watered down.” Those were the same things that had been on the menu yesterday. One could not expect much variety at a monastery, but at the same time their meals were hot and nourishing. Much better than a handful of berries gathered from the forest floor.

Philip looked so pleased with himself that Tom couldn’t help but grin. “Am I going to receive favoritism from you from now on?” He teased.

“You were already receiving it from the day you arrived. The cheese is specially made at St.John-in-the-Forest. There isn’t enough of it to go around, so only a select few get to sample it.”

“Then, in that case, thank you for the three pieces that I’ve already eaten. It’s the most delicious cheese that I’ve ever tasted.” Tom pulled the same tunic he’d been wearing in the morning over his head, but didn’t bother to belt it. He thought that he was saving Philip from temptation, but the prior actually reacted disappointed by Tom’s modesty.

“It isn’t a sin to look,” Philip muttered underneath his breath as he followed Tom down to the first floor.

On the ground floor, there was a small dug out area in the center of the room for a fire, and a low wooden table nearby. Not close enough for the flames to touch, but not so far away that the food would quickly become chilled. Philip must have gotten the fire started when he arrived. It was now burning brightly, doing its best to keep the fish warm, and melting the edges of the cheese. The diluted ale had been pushed far from the fire because nobody appreciated warm alcohol. There were two cups of ale, two plates of fish and cheese, and one extra long loaf of crispy wheat bread.

Tom was moved. Philip had waited to eat supper with him. It was a surprising change from the tug-of-war that went on when the children were at the dinner table. Tom sat down, cross legged, on the floor beside the table while Philip did the same. He waited for Philip to sing grace before even thinking about touching the food. There weren’t any other monks present so the duty of thanking the Lord Almighty for the meal in which they were about to partake fell upon Philip. And Philip didn’t disappoint. He had a magnificent singing voice, so pure and enchanting. Tom loved to hear Philip sing, especially now that they were alone together. It was almost like a private serenade. Unfortunately it was over too soon.

As soon as Philip finished, he broke the loaf of bread into two equal halves, placing one half next to the fish on Tom’s plate, and dipped the other half into his cup of ale to soften it. “I’ll be gone before sunup,” he said conversationally as he took a bite out of his soggy bread.

“I could come and see you off,” Tom offered.

“As much as I’d like that, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. Bishop Waleran will be with me. I want you to have as little contact with him as possible. Besides, you’ll need your rest for the cathedral work tomorrow.”

Tom almost choked on his fish upon hearing that. The way they had left things, he hadn’t been sure if Philip had given him the job or not. “Of course,” he replied quickly, not wanting to appear hesitant.

“I’ve given Remigius the authorization to supply you with whatever you might need for your work. Be it masons, carpenters, or general laborers. And I assume you’ll be needing a mason’s lodge to operate out of. Take what you need from our supplies. Hopefully I will be returning with good news next week, which will mean more stones and timber.”

“What if Remigius gives me a hard time?”

“Complain to Brother Cuthbert and he’ll see to it that Remigius behaves himself. If there’s one thing Remigius hates, it’s being unpopular. He’ll do anything to avoid having the rest of the monks rally against him. Oh, and Tom... about Ellen...”

“I’m sorry. I’ve tried to keep her out of the monastery, but she insisted on taking her supper there tonight.”

“I don’t blame you for it. I just think you should know that Remigius is spreading some ludicrous rumor about Ellen being a witch. I doubt anyone believes him but he won’t be silenced. Tell her to take extra care with what she says or does when in the company of others. I’m sure that she believes that it is okay to criticize our way of life here, but it takes on a whole different connotation when she includes blasphemous words, or uses the Lord’s name in vain.”

At that, Tom couldn’t help but shake his head. “I’ll warn her. She’s a difficult woman to give advice to but a witch she is not.”

There was something else that Philip wanted to request, something of a more personal nature. He waited until Tom had enjoyed his last bite of cheese before coming out with it. “Perhaps I have no right to ask this of you, but I’d like you to remain celibate until I return.”

Tom felt his face and ears heat up with color the second the word ‘celibate’ left Philip’s lips. Philip uttered the word as casually as he did any other word, as if it didn’t hold any significant meaning. Did monks discuss their celibacy regularly over dinner, or before bedtime, thereby stripping it of all emotion? And what did Philip mean by _until I return_? Was he planning to go all the way as soon as he got back? Tom was still pretty ignorant of how to properly attend to a woman, never mind a man. His wife, Agnes, had never complained, but she had never lain with another man before him. Neither of them had had any prior experience to compare their lovemaking to. Ellen, however, was never done instructing Tom on how to _do it properly_. The thought of lying with Philip hadn’t yet occurred to Tom, and he found the prospect maddeningly frightening.

“Tom?”

Realizing that Philip needed a response of some sort, Tom uncomfortably nodded. “Ellen and I haven’t done _that_ recently.”

Philip’s features hardened ever so slightly, taking on the role of prior as he educated Tom on the meaning of celibacy. “Remaining celibate means abstaining from any and all sexual contact. That includes touching and kissing. I don’t take what I’ve done with you so far lightly at all, Tom. Especially since you are married, albeit unhappily as far as I can tell.”

“I think that I should tell you something about Ellen,” Tom said nervously when he noticed how serious Philip had become. If Philip was that concerned about Ellen and marriage, then he was probably worrying about breaking one of the Ten Commandments. There was no way that a prior would be oblivious to the sacred rule of not lying with another man’s wife, or, in this case, another woman’s husband.

“I really do need to prepare for my departure tomorrow.” Philip abruptly got to his feet, leaving his cheese untouched and a few morsels of fish lying beside a chunk of bread on his plate. “Anything you need to tell me about Ellen can wait until I return. You’re still hungry so you can have the rest of my supper.”

But sensing Philip’s mood change had made Tom lose his appetite. He sullenly stared down at the contents of his plate, wishing that he had just told Philip the truth from the start. The longer he left it, the more complicated things became. If he told Philip about Ellen, he would have to reveal how Agnes had died, which would lead Philip to discovering what Tom had done afterwards. Philip might never forgive him. Or, worse yet, Philip might end up hating him for it. Tom hated himself more than enough on most days. To lose Philip’s interest and affections would be the end of everything, of that Tom had no doubt.

“Have I upset you?”

Tom felt Philip’s hands on his cheeks as Philip knelt down beside him. He knew that he was acting ridiculous and should just put a phoney smile on his face and wish Philip a safe journey. That’s what a man of sterner stuff would have done. But he couldn’t help but feel like he was unworthy of Philip for the complications that he was causing. Philip would ride off to Winchester, spend the week reflecting on his transgressions, and come to the conclusion that Tom enticed him to sin. Then he would confess his unholy attraction to Tom to a higher ranking member of the clergy and beg for absolution. After that, he would avoid Tom as much as possible, or maybe even replace him as master builder on the Kingsbridge Cathedral.

“I’m sorry,” Philip said softly, surprising Tom into gazing tearfully up at him. “I may be a prior, but I am not infallible as a human being. Imagining you with Ellen makes me very... jealous. I never meant for you to take my jealousy as meanness towards you. If you promise me that you will keep your relationship with Ellen platonic, I may stop feeling jealous.”

Tom would promise Philip anything if it would make him happy. “I promise,” he eagerly agreed.

Philip kissed Tom once more, before he left him to the rest of his meal. “And when I come back, we will have a real discussion together. I would like you to tell me the cause of your sorrow so that I may help you overcome it.”

Tom simply nodded, hurriedly wishing that Philip have a safe journey to and from Winchester, because it was superstitious not to do so. Then he ate the rest of his supper in miserable, lonely silence.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

_9 days later..._

In the middle of the first big thunderstorm of the year, Philip’s overheated donkey sloshed through the muddy turf, automatically slowing down as soon as it came to yet another hill. But Philip urged it on, paying no heed to the treacherous terrain, or the real possibility of the animal slipping and breaking one of its bony legs. The donkey swung its sopping wet head to and fro, protesting against Philip’s unsympathetic treatment of it, but Philip forced it onwards.

Up ahead, Philip caught sight of Bishop Waleran and the fine pony that he had commandeered. Waleran was treating his ride in a similar fashion, his impatient shouts of encouragement carrying downhill to where Philip’s donkey was finally beginning to search for its footing up the steep incline.

Hoping that the donkey would sense his determination and continue to do his bidding, Philip leaned forward in the saddle and willed the gasping animal to climb faster. Despite the rain, steam was coming off of the donkey. Philip himself felt unnaturally warm in his sodden clothing. He had to squint to see through the veil of rain blocking his path, but he would not let Waleran out of his sight.

_This is a disaster! One calamity after the next!_

This was one fine example of why Philip insisted that his band of monks stay in excellent physical shape. He refused to let himself go, like many monks in other monasteries happened to do when they became too comfortable with their routines. In the event of an emergency, an energetic man who had no excess would fair better than an aging sloth who took the convenience of the monastery for granted. That’s what Waleran was. An unsightly, aging has-been who took a second helping of whatever the cook prepared for dinner, and who whiled away his evenings in front of the fireplace, with a glass of vintage red wine in one hand, and a plateful of roasted pheasant in the other. It was because of that disgraceful behavior that Philip was able to gain on the man. A well rested donkey with a fit rider still had a chance of besting a clumsy rider who weighed more than his pony was accustomed to carrying.

As they approached the closed gates of Kingsbridge Priory, Waleran began to shout again, but this time to whoever should have been manning the entrance. That was the last delay Philip needed to catch up to him. There were no monks lingering around the gates to the priory because they rarely got many visitors. Most travellers bypassed Kingsbridge because it was out in the middle of nowhere. There weren’t any shops, the decrepit cathedral had been destroyed, and there weren’t any common folk living in the immediate vicinity. The closest existence of civilization was the farmland that Kingsbridge owned and rented out, and on it the failing crops that had yet to be harvested. Currently, Kingsbridge’s only asset was the wool industry that it invested in. If there was one thing that Kingsbridge Priory was known for, it was its fine sheep stock, and the high quality wool that they produced.

Thinking that opening the gates by himself was below him, Waleran shouted again, this time a warning to anyone who could hear him.

Philip pulled up alongside Waleran, giving him a poorly concealed look of contempt, before he dismounted and opened the gate on the left side. Not giving Waleran a chance to react, Philip smacked his donkey’s rear, signalling it to enter first. He was about to follow when Waleran ploughed through the open gate, splashing him with mud and rainwater, and nearly running down the donkey in his haste.

Inside the gate, Brother Cuthbert was waiting off to one side. He looked no better than Philip felt, drenched and anxious. Philip met the monk’s grayish-brown eyes as he trudged purposefully up to him. “Where is Ellen?” Philip demanded to know without any preamble. He watched Waleran dismount out of the corner of his eye, ungraciously hoping that the bishop would slip in the mud and fall on his face. However, much to Philip’s disappointment, Waleran managed to keep his balance, hurrying off into the monastery where he intended to do quite a lot of damage. 

“The woman is in the holding cell,” Cuthbert quickly informed Philip as soon as he was within earshot.

“And Tom?”

“In the guesthouse.”

“Are the children with him?”

Cuthbert rushed after Philip as he headed for the guesthouse. “No. They’re in the refectory, being watched over by one of the man-at-arms that Waleran sent ahead of you.”

“And what of the rest of the monks? Was anyone hurt when that buffoon Remigius took Ellen into custody?”

“Tom was knocked down, but not badly hurt. Johnny was nearly—.”

“Dear God! The baby!” Philip cried out in dread. “Please tell me that the baby was not harmed.”

“No. Jonathan is fine. I was just going to say that Johnny missed being trampled on by one of the man-at-arms’ horses.”

_Thank the Lord!_

Breathing a thready sigh of relief, Philip increased his pace. “Go back to the holding cell and delay the trial proceedings for as long as you can.” Not waiting for an answer, Philip marched up to the guesthouse. He came face to face with what looked like an armed mercenary who was standing guard outside the only door to the abode where Philip knew Tom to be. “Move aside, immediately!” He commanded.

In response, the young man with the scarred face took a step to one side, granting Philip access to the small hovel. The man seemed lazy and indifferent, only following the orders that he had been given, which were to keep Tom locked inside. Nobody had instructed him to keep others out, especially riled up monks, so he took the path of least resistance.

Philip burst into the guesthouse, relieved to see Tom sitting on one of the ground floor pallets, on the other side of the room. Aside from the lack of color in his face, and the tension in his unnaturally rigid posture, Tom seemed to be unharmed.

Philip had played this scene over in his head numerous times on the long ride back to Kingsbridge. Half of those times he had encountered reluctance on Tom’s part when the master builder failed to properly greet him. The other half had led to an equally unhappy outcome, with Philip raking Tom over the coals for his deception. But, when Tom recognized the half drowned monk standing before him as the man he had been yearning for over the past week and a half, he sprang to his feet, crossed the room, and threw himself into Philip’s open arms.

The welcoming gesture had been automatic for Philip could not muster up even the slightestdisagreeable thought towards Tom. One look into those soulful green eyes and he found himself lost. How could he do anything other than embrace the man whom he had been going out of his mind with worry over?

Tom spoke first, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I’ve missed you. You didn’t say how long you would be gone... but I thought maybe five days at the most. I asked Remigius about you, but he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

 _Why would he?_ Philip thought to himself as he held Tom tightly. _The rat only reports to the snake. And you’ve aligned yourself with the snake’s enemy..._

“You’ve been on my mind every day since I left,” Philip said reassuringly. “I did send you a message, which I now realize was never given to you.” Again, Philip thought of Remigius the backstabbing rat. “There were many _complications_ during my trip. And, as I understand it, there is now one more that requires my attention here.”

“Ellen is in trouble, Philip. She’s being accused of heresy and fornication.”

Philip held Tom at arm’s length so that he could look him in the eye when he asked the questions that had been driving him mad with curiosity ever since he had heard the accusations. “Is Ellen not your wife?”

Slowly, Tom shook his head.

“Then the accusation of fornication is true?”

“Before arriving here - yes. But not since then.I haven’t broken my promise to you.”

Tom sounded so sincere that Philip nearly grinned foolishly despite the seriousness of Ellen’s predicament. He had to steel his nerves to get through this interrogation if he was going to be of any help to Tom’s female companion. Leading Tom back to the pallet, he motioned that he should sit down. And then Philip sat beside him. “It makes my heart glad to hear that you’ve kept your promise to me, Tom. But it is now of the utmost importance that you answer my questions as truthfully as you can.”

“I will,” Tom agreed without hesitation.

“How did you meet Ellen?”

“My family and I were attacked in the woods. Martha was hurt, and we were all starving. Ellen and her son Jack came to our aid. Ellen fed us, tended to Martha’s wound, and gave us shelter.”

“When was this?”

“A month and a half ago.”

“You say that she tended to Martha’s wound. Did she use any incantations or speak in a language that you could not understand?”

“Certainly not.”

“Where is the mother of your children?” Philip felt a quiver of fear run through him when Tom suddenly paled and his eyes became glassy. It was not the look of a man who had lost his wife to a sudden illness, or to another man. Whatever had taken Tom’s wife from him, it had been tragic. “Did she die before or after you met Ellen?” He asked as gently as he could.

“After,” Tom replied shortly, offering no more information, and no longer making eye contact.

“So, Ellen helped your wife as well?”

Tom nodded.

“Then your wife passed away not that long ago.” Not waiting for an answer before moving on, Philip braced himself as he asked his next question. “Did Ellen have anything to do with your wife’s death? Did she curse her, or—?”

“No!” Tom protested in dismay. “Ellen is _not_ a witch! She was nothing but courteous to Agnes. She insisted that Agnes not travel through the woods in her condition, but Alfred wouldn’t let up with his accusations of witchcraft. The boy saw the medicine that Ellen was making and thought she was casting spells, the idiot. He put it in Agnes’ head that it wasn’t safe to stay with Ellen. So we left in the middle of the freezing night, got completely lost, and Agnes... she suddenly went into labor. It was too soon... and too cold...and there was so much blood...”

“Your wife was pregnant?! Tom, I’m so sorry.” Philip made as if to wrap his arms around Tom, but the disconsolate man shook him off. Not understanding, Philip tried again to console Tom with his words alone. “I can’t imagine how awful it must have been for you to lose both your wife and your child on the same night.”

“I didn’t lose my child,” Tom said bitterly. “I abandoned him. The tiny little miracle that Agnes spent her last ounce of strength delivering... I left him on her grave to die.” And then Tom did break down, finally releasing all the self-loathing and sadness that he had been bravely hiding up until that point. “There wasn’t any food... and I was so tired. I tried to go back afterwards, but it was too late. He was gone,” he sobbed. When Philip pulled Tom against him, gently caressing his tear streaked face and whispering soothing words to him, Tom only cried harder. “Why?” He asked in confusion.

“Why am I not judging you harshly for what you did?” Philip understood only too well what was going through Tom’s mind. “You experienced a moment of weakness, but you overcame it. You don’t deserve the torment you’re putting yourself through. Just as Ellen doesn’t deserve to be executed for living her life in a fashion that none of us can truly comprehend. Agnes is with God now, Tom. He will take care of her, and I will take care of you.”

Philip closed his eyes and sighed a breath of relief when Tom stopped fighting him. He could feel a fraction of the tension leaving Tom, before Philip’s embrace was being returned. And then Tom’s lips were brushing against his own in a kiss of gratitude. It was only a kiss, but Philip felt shaken to the core by his reaction to it. By the overwhelming desire to stay like this forever, never letting Tom go.

As much as Philip longed to spend more time with Tom, he couldn’t for fear of what might happen to Ellen. He didn’t need to hear anymore for he had already made his decision. He was going to defy Waleran and have Ellen released. He would not stand by idly while an innocent woman was executed, whatever Waleran’s twisted reasons for wanting to see it happen.

Lingering a few more minutes to ensure that he left Tom in a semi-rational state, Philip found his thoughts naturally drifting to the tiny baby boy that was no doubt asleep in his crib by now. How old could Jonathan be? Philip had blessed many babies in his time, but not many as small as Jonathan. The boy had to have been born prematurely. Johnny had found him in the woods, a little over a month ago, but he hadn’t elaborated on the where or how. But there were two pieces of evidence that Philip had to link Tom to that baby. One was the scrap of wool that Jonathan had come wrapped in. It was no coincidence that Tom had a cloak of the same faded color, that just so happened to be torn at the end. Then there were Jonathan’s eyes. Bright green flecked with brown. The baby’s eyes were an uncommon color, but identical to Tom’s. _Jonathan is Tom’s son!_ Philip opened his mouth to announce this revelation, but swallowed the words just as quickly. Tom knew that Jonathan was his. The scene he had witnessed with Tom and Jonathan hadn’t been a lonely man fawning over a guileless child. It had been a father bonding with his son.

Bringing up Jonathan now might be too much for Tom to deal with, so Philip left it unsaid for the time being. Instead, he concentrated on stroking Tom’s back, kissing his bearded cheek, and holding him close until Tom seemed somewhat relaxed. “I’m going to see what I can do for Ellen now. Will you be alright until I get back?” He didn’t feel comfortable leaving Tom in such a vulnerable state, but Ellen took priority over everything else. Gauging by the bishop’s vindictive nature, he would no doubt skip the entire trial in favor of pronouncing Ellen guilty.Philip had had more than enough of Waleran’s treachery to last him a lifetime. He knew how the bishop operated - on greed and bathed in scandal. The things that man had done...

“I feel much better now. Thank you, Philip.” Tom hastily dried his face with the sleeve of his tunic, and made an effort to look composed.

“Don’t be ashamed of your feelings. Whenever you need to talk, or cry, I am here for you.” Philip got up off the pallet, groaning when he realized that both it and Tom’s tunic were soaked. Tom hadn’t complained, but Philip had just made a very big mess with his water laden robe. “I’ll have someone sent over to replace this pallet. Change your clothing before you catch a cold.”

And then Philip was off again, shouldering his way past the armed man outside the doorway who was trying to escape the onslaught of rain. Fearing that something could go very wrong with his plan, he turned to the man-at-arms and gave him an ominous warning. “If any harm befalls that man in there, God will see to it that you are punished.”

***

After Tom had changed into a dry outfit, he began to pace the length of the guesthouse. How long had Philip been gone? An hour and a half? Two? He hadn’t said what he was planning on doing, perhaps so as not to make Tom an accomplice if he had to resort to breaking Ellen out of her cell. Tom couldn’t imagine any way of rescuing Ellen short of helping her escape Kingsbridge entirely. Remigius had gloatingly told Tom that Ellen would be off to the gallows to be hung by morning so he needn’t waste his energy pleading on her behalf. He had added that Bishop Waleran would be presiding over the trial himself. The bishop was eager to announce a guilty verdict due to some sort of vendetta he had against Ellen. The details of that were a mystery to Tom, as was most of Ellen’s past.

Tom had been sick with worry about Ellen, but also very anxious to see Philip again. He had missed Philip dearly over the past nine days. And upon Philip’s return, he found himself confessing what he felt was his greatest sin, but Philip’s reaction had not been what he expected. Philip had been understanding and compassionate, basically telling Tom that there was nothing to forgive. Philip didn’t despise him for abandoning his own child out in the wilderness. He had shown Tom only sympathy and support, easing the pain that Tom had been carrying for nearly two months. The more Tom thought about it, the more he realized that he had fallen for Philip completely. Philip’s love - if that was what it was - was unconditional, and Tom could not help but want to return Philip’s devotion tenfold.

One thing that Tom had found odd was Philip’s lack of interest in what had happened to the baby. Had he avoided asking in order to spare Tom more heartache? Or... could he know about Jonathan?

The protesting creak of the thick oak door being pulled open caused Tom to tense. The second the sleeve of a soaking wet robe was visible through the doorway, he impulsively called out. “Is Ellen okay? Has she been released?” He felt lightheaded when a drenched purple robe, not a shabby brown one, emerged from the rain. After a few seconds of silence, he attempted to cover his blunder by changing the subject. “My lord bishop, how was your trip to Winchester?”

The lined face that impassively stared at Tom seemed older than the last time he had seen it. Bishop Waleran was not a young man, nor was he an old man in his senior years. And yet, he looked over a decade past his prime, with deep grooves running from the sides of his nose to the corners of his mouth. They could have been frown lines, or a result of his indulgent, aristocratic lifestyle. He also had similar lines along his forehead that went even deeper when he furrowed his eyebrows. Like he was doing now.

“How strange,” Waleran said wondrously as he inspected the simple room with his perceptive, hawklike gaze. “I could have sworn that Prior Philip was headed in this direction earlier. Didn’t he tell you how our trip went?”

When Waleran pulled the door shut, and then bolted it, Tom felt his heart stop.

“Or perhaps you had something better to discuss. Like breaking Ellen out of her cell and helping her escape?”

_Ellen is free!_

Philip had been successful, which would explain why Tom now had the displeasure of being visited by Waleran. Although Waleran spoke in an easy, conversational manner, Tom could hear the fury lurking beneath the surface. He had never officially met this man, but he had gleaned enough information about him from Philip and Remigius to know that anyone who messed with Waleran didn’t come away unscathed. And then there was the matter of the bolted door...

“I haven’t left this room since Ellen was taken away,” Tom protested. “How could I have helped her escape?”

“You seem nervous, Tom Builder. You needn’t be. Unless you disappoint me.” Waleran faked a reassuring smile that completely warped his unkind face, making him appear even more sinister.

As Waleran began to circle the room, approaching Tom from the right, Tom retreated in the other direction. Tom kept his actions slow and unconcerned, but his heart was pounding in his chest as he got closer to the bolted door. “Why were you so adamant on condemning Ellen?” It was the only thing he could think of asking to stall for time.

“That doesn’t concern you,” Waleran said coldly.

They now had the table and the fire in the center of the room between them, and Tom had his back to the door. Tom didn’t want to appear like a coward, but men in positions of power didn’t trap their adversaries inside a confined space for no reason. Waleran bore him ill will, of that he was certain. A lot could be hidden inside the gaping sleeves of a bishop’s robe. A sharp knife. Poison. Some sort of torture device. Tom preferred to err on the side of caution and quickly remove himself from the bishop’s presence.

Judging that the distance between them was sufficient enough, Tom hurriedly turned to the door, lifted the bar back into its resting position, and prepared to push the door open.

“Open that door and the man behind it will cut you down before you have a chance to step outside.”

Trying not to let his growing fear show, Tom hesitated in front of the door that he was now not allowed to touch. “What do you want?” He forced himself to ask.

“I want many things. I want Ellen dead. But, thanks to Philip, that witch has gotten a new lease on life.” Waleran advanced on Tom again, this time cutting across the room, and stepping so close to the fire that it lapped at his robe ends. If his robe hadn’t been wet, he might have set himself ablaze. “I want the forests and quarry of Shiring. Again, as a result of Philip’s impudence, I have neither. Can you see a pattern forming, Tom?”

Feeling like a predator’s plaything, Tom shied away from the bishop once more, retreating to the opposite side of the room. He was not a fighting man, and even if he had been, engaging Waleran in a physical altercation would not have good consequences. If he won, Waleran would have him flogged or hung. If he lost... The outcome would depend solely on what kind of weapons Waleran intended to use on him.

“So the king didn’t permit Kingsbridge Priory to use the resources of Shiring for its cathedral?” Tom asked, trying to piece together the situation from what little information he had. Philip had returned visibly agitated, sharing no details from his joint trip with Waleran, except to say that it had had _complications_. The biggest complication that Tom imagined Philip had been forced to contend with was Waleran himself.

“Oh, no, the king granted Kingsbridge Priory access to both the forests and the quarry,” Waleran sneered.

“Then what is the problem?”

“The problem is that I don’t give a rat’s ass about Kingsbridge Priory or Prior Philip’s cathedral!” Waleran kicked over Tom’s tool box that lay by his feet, spilling the contents onto the dirt floor of the small hovel. The flash of movement, and the loud clatter of chisels and hammers hitting the floor momentarily distracted Tom so that he didn’t notice Waleran reaching into the sleeve of his robe until it was too late. “You have two choices. Tell Philip that you will not build his cathedral, or better yet, tell Philip to go to hell.” Waleran gripped the black leather whip that he’d been concealing threateningly in his right hand, before he snapped off a test shot that caused Tom to jump back in fright. “Your second choice, as you can see, will not be pleasant.”

“I will not betray Philip,” Tom protested, frantically searching the room for something to defend himself with. None of the scattered tools were within reach, and his steel measuring pole was propped up against the doorframe. To get to it, he would have to circumvent the fire and the table, or go through Waleran. He was confident about neither option.

“Your loyalty is admirable, but your stupidity far outweighs it. You’re nothing but an ignorant commoner who has no respect for the church or its hierarchy. You pledge your allegiance to a cocky prior when it is the bishop you should be kneeling down to.” Waleran kept hold of the whip in his right hand, seizing Tom’s tunic with his left. “I will give you one last chance, _mason_.” The word mason sounded mangled in Waleran’s mouth, revealing just how much he despised someone of Tom’s social status. “Leave Philip and come to work for me. You can use your talent on something worthwhile, like my new palace. And, unlike that fool Philip, I can actually afford to pay you.”

The cathedral had never been about the money for Tom. It was his lifelong dream to build a glorious cathedral, for the sake of leaving behind a beautiful creation dedicated to God that everyone could enjoy. Only recently had he altered his vow to include building the cathedral in order to please Philip. Tom would build nothing else until he finished that cathedral, in Kingsbridge, for Philip.

“I’m afraid that I must decline your generous offer.”

“So be it.” Waleran drew back his whip, which caused Tom to raise both arms protectively in front of his face.

Tom had never been whipped before, but he had seen others go through the pain and humiliation of having their flesh ripped open by an eager tormentor. He couldn’t imagine how much it would hurt, or what damage it might do, but he did know that if he fought back, Waleran would have him killed. To get into a confrontation with a monk was one thing, but to defy a bishop...

“What in the name of God is going on here?!”

As soon as Waleran spun around to glare at Philip, Tom pulled his tunic free from the bishop’s evil claws and quickly backed away. With Philip acting as a witness, Waleran couldn’t justifiably attack Tom. But when Tom glanced over at the doorway to look at the prior, he broke into a cold sweat. Philip had changed into a dry robe and undergarments, and he had the cowl of his scapula pulled over his head to keep himself warm. What he was wearing wasn’t what scared Tom, it was the baby that Philip had cradled close to his chest that was terrifying. Tom didn’t want that monster Waleran anywhere near his infant son.

“A minor disagreement,” Waleran replied nonchalantly. “Nothing that concerns you.”

“You were about to strike him,” Philip said with incredulity mixed with a twinge of venom. His hold on Jonathan tightened as he tried to conceal the boy in the folds of his cloak. “That concerns me a great deal.” He advanced on Waleran, causing the bishop to stumble back a few steps. Apparently, Philip knew how to deal with the devious bishop, and his methods did not involve backing down.

“I wouldn’t have had to resort to bribing your lover to work for me if you had left my original agreement with the king alone. Your meddling—.”

“Your original agreement was a purely selfish one,” Philip interrupted him, not commenting on how his relationship with Tom was being interpreted. “The priory was to get access to the resources necessary for building the cathedral, _not_ the diocese. I rectified a misunderstanding that would have cost Kingsbridge its cathedral.”

In response to Philip’s raised voice, Jonathan began to kick his legs and whine in irritation. If Waleran hadn’t noticed him before, he now began to look at the child with keen interest.

“What’s this, Philip? Did you accidentally get some whore pregnant?” Waleran snickered.

Before Waleran could worm his way closer to get a better look at Jonathan, Tom moved forward, coming between them. He would gladly take a whipping over the fear of Waleran doing any way harm to his son.

As if anticipating Tom’s response, Philip grabbed Tom by his arm and pulled him in close. Keeping one arm securely wrapped around Tom to prevent him from doing anything rash, Philip passed him the baby with the other arm. Tom took Jonathan into his arms, wondering what Philip was up to.

“This baby is an orphan. He was discovered in the woods not far from here. The monks and I have decided to raise him in the monastery. But, we have no experience with babies, so Tom has kindly offered to help us in caring for this child. So, as you can see, God has led Tom to us with more than one purpose in mind. With that being said, Tom is under my protection. If you dare to raise your hands to him again, or threaten him in any way, you will have to answer to me, as well as God.”

For a moment, Waleran stood there looking like he’d been ambushed by a swarm of bees. Then he seemed to recover some of his lost malice. Despite Philip’s undisguised threat, he glared at Tom hatefully, before giving the baby a menacing look. Finally, he met Philip’s unwavering stare with a mild grin. “It’s exactly because of how important Tom and that baby are to you that I will strike them down first,” he vowed as he slithered off into the night.


	6. Chapter 6

“When did you find the time to make this?” Philip marvelled over the small white stone sculpture that he had found in the middle of his dining table. It was prominently displayed between the architectural drawings that Tom had left behind nearly two weeks ago. It was also one of the few things in the room that wasn’t blanketed in a layer of dust. Compared to the stuffy tapestries hanging on the wall and the rather pretentious curtains that Philip had drawn back from the bed, Tom’s carved angel looked fresh and modern. And a lot more personal.

“After dark, when it became too difficult to continue working on the cathedral.”

“It’s exquisite,” Philip remarked as he carefully picked the angel up to test its weight. It was about as tall as the distance from his elbow to his wrist, not very big at all, but it was significantly heavier than it looked. The angel was seated on a podium, leaning forward, with her fingers clasped securely to the ledge on either side of her hips, and her legs dangling down in front. Her magnificent white wings fanned out from her shoulder blades and arched upwards at an angle. Reflecting the inner calm of her maker, her expression was content and her features ethereal. Philip wouldn’t have been lying if he said that this was the most beautiful sculpture that he had ever had the pleasure of seeing, or touching. But Tom was already blushing and beaming with pride. If Philip said anything else, he might risk embarrassing the mason and throwing the next hour or so into uncomfortable silence, so he left it at that.

Putting the angel back down took a tremendous amount of effort because Philip found it soothing to stroke his fingers over the smooth contours of the figure’s wings, stunned at the incredible details of each individual feather. How long had Tom worked on this? To think that Philip himself was the inspiration for such a masterpiece...

“I only entered to place the sculpture inside,” Tom explained, sounding somewhat nervous.

“That’s fine,” Philip said distractedly. The prior’s quarters were usually left alone out of respect for its occupant, even when the prior was away on business, hence the dust accumulation. None of the monks would have the nerve to disturb the prior’s sanctuary. Besides, anything that Philip needed to be given could usually wait until he returned. And even then, he received very few personal calls to his private room. Whether Tom was aware of the proper decorum or not, Philip had no idea, but he could understand what had compelled Tom to act as he had. Artistic talent like Tom’s should not be stifled or reprimanded for failing to adhere to the rules. If Tom wanted a cathedral with three arches, so be it. If Tom crept into a restricted area of the priory to bestow a gift upon the prior, whom he favored, who was Philip to stand in his way?

Except...

“Tom, I’m honored that you have created this for me but...” Philip hesitated with his palm resting lightly on the angel’s head, after having placed it back down onto the table. He gazed over at Tom, who was sitting on one of the wooden chairs near the fire, rocking the baby to sleep. At first, Tom didn’t look up because he was fully absorbed with Jonathan. Both father and son looked exhausted. While babies were naturally sleepy creatures, grown men usually had no problem with staying up until all hours. However, this was not the case with Tom, who was struggling to remain upright. Philip had watched the master builder change and wash the baby, and then sit there patiently while Jonathan sucked a cloth soaked with goat’s milk dry, before finally coaxing Jonathan to sleep. On top of that, Tom was still on edge after his encounter with Waleran. If Tom did get any sleep tonight, whatever dreams he may have would most likely leave him even more unsettled.

“But?”

When Tom looked up to meet his gaze, Philip felt terribly responsible for the self-doubt that those light green eyes suddenly clouded over with. In truth, monks were not allowed to possess material objects, for whatever reason. They were expected to either decline gifts or accept them on behalf of the church. Anything given to one person had to benefit them all. If Philip kept the angel, he would be breaking one of his sacred vows - the vow of poverty. Philip had chosen to renounce all worldly possessions more than half a lifetime ago. He was obligated to present the angel to the rest of the monks during one of their meetings, where the placement of this now holy object would be decided by a unanimous vote.

“But I have nothing to give you in return,” Philip finished quickly, covering what he had originally intended to say. He couldn’t hurt Tom’s feelings by giving the angel away, which is what he would basically be doing if he removed it from his room. Who was to say that the angel wouldn’t enrich the prior’s quarters, thereby benefiting the priory as a whole? A small part of him realized that his judgment was skewed in Tom’s presence, but he ignored it in favor of keeping Tom happy. And there was no question that having his sculpture appreciated by Philip gave Tom immense joy.

“You’ve already given me so much... more than I deserve,” Tom replied, once more practically glowing with pride because Philip could not stop touching the angel.

“Far from it,” Philip scoffed. Prying his attention away from the angel, he joined Tom in front of the fire.

The hard chair that Tom was sitting on was softened by embroidered cushions - the same ones that Philip had hurled onto the floor in a moment of frustration - but it still wasn’t suitable for taking a nap on. And it looked like Tom was on the verge of dozing off. Although he was smiling contentedly, his eyes were unfocused, and he was leaning a little too close to the fire. The room was cold and damp from all the rain, and Tom’s tunic alone was insufficient protection against the chilly wind blowing in through the narrow windows lined up above the fireplace. The master builder was shivering even as he tried to shield the baby from the cold that he himself could not endure. It reminded Philip of the first day they had met. Tom had been near starvation and shivering, too weak to travel any further. After having seen the object of his affections at such a low point, Philip had sworn to himself that he would never allow Tom to be put through such hardships ever again.

“Will you get into trouble for this?” Tom asked sleepily.

“For what?” Philip pushed a second chair next to the first and sat down beside Tom. He then pulled the master builder up against him, wrapping the folds of his cloak around both father and son. Tom shifted over so that he could rest his head against Philip’s chest, but he didn’t answer the question. “Tom? If you wish to sleep...” Worried that Tom might accidentally drop the baby, Philip locked both arms securely around Jonathan as well as Tom. He was surprised to find Tom’s forearms braced with tension in spite of his exhaustion. There was no way Tom was letting go of Jonathan, not unless someone forced him to.

As for the trouble... There was only one thing that Tom could have been referring to and that had to be a commoner staying in the prior’s room. If Bishop Waleran had behaved as a man in his position ought to, he would have chosen to appropriate the prior’s quarters instead of kicking Tom’s family out of the guesthouse. Philip had no doubt that it had been done out of spite, but he also suspected that Waleran’s motive was to conjure up a scandal. Waleran had made a big fuss out of commanding his men-at-arms to throw everything belonging to Tom’s family out of the guesthouse and into the muddy puddles just outside its entrance. Thankfully the two older boys and the girl hadn’t been anywhere nearby to see the incident - when the few meagre possessions that the family did own were scattered outside like unwanted refuse. But Tom and Philip had witnessed the entire thing as it occurred not long after Waleran had left and then returned with reinforcements. Tom had shouted at Waleran in indignation when his precious toolbox, as well as his tools, had been flung into separate puddles in front of his face. Philip had needed to hold Tom back when the master builder suddenly lunged at Waleran, momentarily forgetting who it was he was dealing with.

“No. There won’t be any trouble,” Philip reassured Tom.

If Tom had been sent to the dormitory to spend the night with the children and the monks, Philip would have lain awake in bed all night, wondering if the master builder was okay. No threat had been made against Alfred, Jack, or Martha, but Waleran’s vow to mortally wound both Tom and the baby was no bluff. Philip already suspected Waleran of murder and deceit. How could he knowingly allow either Tom or Jonathan to sleep in an open room, unprotected, while Waleran was free to come and go as he pleased? Housing Tom and Jonathan in the prior’s quarters, if only temporarily, had been the only viable solution. The room could be barred from the inside, although this was the first time that Philip had felt it necessary to do so, and nobody could enter without permission, even in Philip’s absence. One or two nights might pass without anyone mentioning Philip’s unorthodox house guests, but any longer than that and questions might be asked. If it came to that, he was well prepared to defend his decision to keep Tom and the baby with him

“You’re warm,” Tom murmured, disturbing Philip’s train of thought.

“Am I now?” Sometimes Tom’s comments amused Philip. They were always so plain and innocent. There was never any ulterior motive to anything Tom said. On the other hand, Tom expressed himself and his feelings in very few words, choosing not to discuss things at length. It was a peculiar change from the master builder’s attitude towards his profession. On the topic of masonry or churches, it was often impossible for Tom to be brief with the topics that he was practically obsessed with.

“Philip...?”

“Yes, Tom?”

“Is Waleran truly capable of harming an infant?” Tom had fallen into the habit of omitting Waleran’s title when using his name. It might have been because Tom no longer respected the man, or because Tom had heard Philip speaking of Waleran in a similar, disrespectful manner upon his return. So long as Tom kept the contempt out of his voice when speaking to Waleran directly, and remembered to address the bishop respectfully in public, Philip couldn’t care less how Tom chose to refer to that despicable man.

“You are both safe here, with me,” Philip said reassuringly. He nudged Tom over a bit so that he could kiss his forehead.

“Then your answer is ‘yes’?”

Philip couldn’t lie to Tom, especially not after the master builder had almost been whipped by the bishop. Had Waleran actually struck Tom, Philip was positive that he would have resorted to violence. Just the thought of any cruelty being inflicted on Tom twisted Philip’s stomach into knots. He felt the same way about Jonathan. What a fool he had been to let Waleran see the child. In his haste to reunite Tom with his son, Philip had underestimated Waleran and his wicked nature.

“When I look into that man’s eyes, all I see is a black soul. I thought that he only manipulated others into doing his dirty work, but now I know that I misjudged him. If he does not get his way, there is no telling what he might do, or to whom.”

“Even to a baby?”

“I pray not, but I fear that it wouldn’t be beneath him. That is why it is imperative that nobody should find out about your connection to Jonathan. Not even your own children.”

“But Jonathan is their brother,” Tom protested, finding the suggestion offensive.

“Children are not the best keepers of secrets,” Philip advised tactfully. What he didn’t say was how Alfred put him on edge. There was a callousness to that boy that Tom either couldn’t or wasn’t willing to see. Naturally, Philip had never had any children. The most interaction he had ever had with a child was listening to a little boy confess to the murder of his mother. That had been the worst encounter, but not the only one. It was because of that experience, and many others, that Philip had learned of the unspeakable evil lurking inside the most innocent. Every time he looked at Alfred, or listened to the cold infliction of his cracked voice, all Philip saw was tragedy waiting to happen.

Even when Philip had momentarily left Tom and the baby alone in his room so that he could oversee the sleeping arrangements in the dormitory, Alfred had reacted bitterly to his presence. While Jack and Martha had politely thanked Philip for the bedrolls and blankets that he handed out, Alfred had ungratefully dropped his own pile onto the floor and given Philip a very chilling look of appraisal. After that, he had demanded to know where his father was sleeping. Why was Tom getting preferential treatment? Why couldn’t they all spend the night in the prior’s quarters? Then, the confrontational teen had made some flippant comment about two men sharing a bed. Philip hadn’t been sure if Alfred knew what was going on between his father and the prior, or if he was just trying to stir up more trouble after having been severely scolded by Tom for nearly getting Ellen killed.

“I suppose you’re right,” Tom finally agreed.

Philip breathed a sigh of relief. He had no desire to come between Tom and his children, but that’s what he was willing to do if it meant keeping Jonathan out of harm’s way.

“About Waleran... I hope that he will return to Shiring as soon as this weather clears up in the morning. If he doesn’t, you and Jonathan are to remain sequestered in here until he does.”

Now wide awake again, Tom predictably shook his head. “I can’t do that. Remigius was only able to hire fifteen men to work on the cathedral - men that are working to repay their debt to the priory. Under normal circumstances, fifteen men would be the bare minimum to start out with, but these men are uncoordinated, unskilled, lack discipline, and make countless mistakes. Progress has been exceptionally slow with them. Delaying construction for even one day could set you back months. Tomorrow the ground will be malleable thanks to the rain, but nobody can predict what the weather will be like in two days, or three.”

Philip wanted his cathedral built as soon as possible, and as grand as Tom had promised, but not at the expense of what was most important to him. And that was no longer the cathedral. “Are you being deliberately obtuse because you believe that this cathedral is worth risking your life for, or because you think that I care more about it than I do you and Jonathan?”

“I just don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You could never disappoint me, Tom, no matter how hard you tried.”

A sudden flash of lightning pierced the sky, illuminating the far recesses of the room that the fire and candles weren’t able to reach. The foreboding growling noise of thunder soon followed, shaking the small stone dwelling with its proximity. At approximately the same time, the sky opened up and released a harsh downpour of rain, and Jonathan began to wail in terror.

“Quickly, get away from the windows.” Philip shoved his chair back as he stood, pulling Tom with him. An instant later, the icy cold rain from outside began to filter in through the windows at an angle, pelting the chairs, the tapestries on the far wall, and the fire. “Blast it! We’re going to lose our fire at this rate.” Although Philip found cursing to be distasteful, there were times when no other word would suffice.

Instead of lamenting the awful rainstorm that was now accosting the prior’s quarters, Tom made an odd comment that Philip could not understand. “Linen window coverings have never served much of a purpose. Glass windows would form a much more formidable barrier to the elements.”

 _Glass? In the windows?_ What on earth was Tom going on about? “Tom, is it normal for Jonathan to scream like that?” If the baby continued to make such a ruckus, wouldn’t he damage his vocal chords, or deafen the two men who were within hearing range? Philip hadn’t realized that a creature so small was capable of crying so loud.

Tom had retreated to the far corner of the room, where the bed was, and was rocking Jonathan back and forth while speaking calmly to him. “It depends on the disposition of the baby, but most of them will end up crying like this sooner or later.”

“And how do you make it stop?” Philip could barely hear himself think, Jonathan’s wailing was that loud. He didn’t want to sound insensitive, because he adored Jonathan, but he was busy trying to redirect the rain so that it wouldn’t put out the fire. All the noise was giving him a splitting headache.

“Babies know when you are annoyed,” Tom said accusingly. “They have a tendency to cry even louder when you lose your patience with them.” He stroked his hand over Jonathan’s face, soothing him, and kissed both of the boy’s chubby cheeks. “Isn’t that right, Jonathan?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Philip doubted that what Tom had said was true. How could a baby know when an adult was annoyed? And why would the baby care? As tender as Tom was being with the baby, all the coddling seemed to be having no effect. “Let me calm Jonathan down. You see to the fire.” Not waiting for Tom to agree with him, Philip relieved the master builder of the baby.

Tom looked bewildered at Philip’s frustrated behavior but did as he was told. As expected, Tom was far more creative than Philip when it came to redirecting the incoming rain. The master builder cleared everything off of the dining table, before pushing it up against the far wall. He then climbed on top of it with his boots, so that he could reach the windows, and stuffed rolled up towels into their empty sockets. But he made sure to leave a slight gap at the top so that fresh air could still enter, and the smoke from the fire could still exit.

Satisfied that Tom had done his part, Philip placed the baby down on the bed, opened up one of the dusty tomes that were stacked on the bedside table, and began to read. “ _This is the debt which man and angel owe to God, and no one who pays this debt commits sin; but every one who does not pay it sins. This is justice, or uprightness of will, which makes a being just or upright in heart.._.” Philip continued to read from the book of St. Anselm of Canterbury in the usual powerful tone that he used to capture the attention of a listless congregation. He was aware of the blank look that Tom was giving him but kept reading nonstop until he had reached the end of the chapter, and Jonathan had stopped crying.

“That was incredible,” Tom remarked as he came over to check on his baby. “He’s fast asleep.”

“If it can put grown men to sleep, I figured that a baby would have a similar, if not more immediate, reaction.” Placing the book back on top of the pile, Philip crossed the room to where he kept his toiletry supplies. “It’s getting late and I need to be up for matins in a few hours, so I suggest we both turn in for the night.” He placed a large bowl of water by the bed, followed by a washcloth, a bar of soap, and a towel. Razors were only distributed in the morning so there would be no shaving tonight. “Have you got something clean to wear to bed?”

“Not after Waleran threw all my garments into the mud,” Tom replied, looking ashamed that he had nothing to change into.

“You can borrow one of my undertunics,” Philip offered. “It might be a bit big on you, but at least it’s clean.” He didn’t feel entirely comfortable loaning Tom any of his old, shabby clothing, but he felt like he had no choice. He only had three undertunics to his name and all of them were stretched out and rough from being washed repeatedly over the past two years. Thankfully he had been able to buy a new robe at the Winchester market, but there hadn’t been enough left over to purchase any new undergarments. Worn out or not, the old undertunic would have to do, at least for one night. Because he couldn’t have Tom going to bed naked. For one thing, Tom would come down with a cold. For another, Philip was having a very difficult time keeping his sexual impulses under control.

“Thank you,” Tom said as he accepted the off-white undertunic from Philip. He then turned his back to Philip and began to disrobe.

Philip quickly retreated to the other end of the room to give Tom some privacy. He even politely looked the other way... for as long as his self-discipline would allow. But he looked back just as Tom was pulling the last article of clothing off over his head. For a second, Philip forgot to breathe as he admired Tom’s lean body from across the room. Even in the dimly lit room, he had no trouble seeing every detail of the beautiful man before him. Tom’s skin had a light olive complexion that was quite flattering with his dark hair. And his back was smooth and flawless, as were his arms and legs. There were no visible scars anywhere on his body from what Philip could tell. Philip had been correct in assuming that Tom had never been involved in battle, nor had he ever been punished for committing a crime.

When Tom crouched down by the bowl of water and picked up the bar of soap, Philip made an effort to look anywhere but at the master builder as he bathed himself. But it was already too late. For the first time in a very long time, Philip felt himself reacting to the sight of another naked man. His breathing became quick and shallow while his heart began to race. And he felt an embarrassing increase in blood flow to an area of his body that he typically ignored. However, he couldn’t ignore it now. These sensations were not foreign to him, although he hadn’t experienced them in a very long time. He knew exactly what he wanted, and he wanted it quite badly.

The air inside the room was brisk, but the water Philip had given Tom was warm from having sat by the fire for an hour or so. Philip watched as Tom splashed water onto his face and then his hair, and then worked the soap into a lather in his hands. From there, Tom washed his face, including his beard, before awkwardly trying to wash his hair without getting soap into his eyes. He was probably accustomed to just splashing the water anywhere in order to get through this nighttime routine. With Philip present, Tom seemed nervous and self-conscious, doing his best not to soak the floor or get soapy suds on the furniture. Philip desperately wanted to go to Tom to help him, or touch him to be more precise, but he held back. Nothing good could come from advancing their relationship so quickly. He knew all too well what a shallow coupling would result in.

“Philip?” Tom paused with the soapy washcloth in his hand but did not look back.

“Yes, Tom?” Philip kept his tone neutral and unaffected, even though he was now wringing his hands anxiously and having difficulty swallowing.

“You aren’t staring at me, are you?”

Was he being that obvious? Philip immediately looked down at the floor so that his answer would not be a lie. “No. I’m not.” Tom was a family man, and a modest one at that. Either he had never been appraised by another man before, or he had and just hadn’t noticed. For Philip, bathing himself in a room full of naked men was nothing out of the ordinary. For Tom, exposing himself to just one man, especially with the knowledge that said man found him attractive, was unsettling.

When Philip found the nerve to look back up again, he was disappointed to see that Tom had finished washing his body with the cloth and was now drying himself off with the towel. His gaze trailed down the curve of Tom’s back, down to the master builder’s slim waist, and then even lower to where the skin was much paler from lack of sun exposure. He tried to memorize as much as he could before Tom pulled on his borrowed undertunic, slowly straightened up and stretched. Holding that cramped position must have been uncomfortable. Tom had successfully prevented Philip from seeing anything vital, which was a clear sign that he was not prepared for any intimacy - at least not tonight.

Once Tom had finished, Philip took the bowl of water and dumped it outside. He then refilled it from the large pitcher of water that was placed on a small table by the door.

“Go ahead and lie down on the bed,” Philip instructed when it didn’t look like Tom was going to move. Such a magnificent bed was intimidating for someone who usually slept on straw pallets or bundled up clothing. Philip had had the same reaction when he first moved into the prior’s quarters. The first few days he had avoided the bed, sleeping on the floor on a bedroll, as was his customary practice. But once he had tried the bed out, no other sleeping surface felt the same afterwards.

Before touching the bed, Tom lifted the sleeping baby up off of it and into his arms. He began to whisper to Jonathan, speaking too softly for Philip to hear, and then tenderly kissed his forehead.

Philip picked one of the far corners to undress in, far in the shadows where Tom would not be able to see clearly. Every layer of clothing he removed got folded neatly in a pile, before he set to work meticulously washing himself. He kept an eye on Tom at the same time, watching the master builder wrap Jonathan in a small woollen blanket that Johnny had stolen from a neighboring farmer. Tom emptied the basket of towels next, and placed Jonathan inside, all bundled up. Then, Tom dragged the chair he had been sitting on over to the bed, and secured the basket on it. After that, he glanced over at Philip, and blushed with embarrassment.

“Sorry, I thought...”

Of course Tom had assumed that Philip would modestly turn his back, just as he had. But Philip was not particularly modest when it came to his own nudity. Also, he would rather Tom get an eyeful of the hair on his chest, and the erection that he could not hide, as opposed to the unsightly condition his back was in. He could not bear to frighten Tom off or cause him to recoil in disgust.

“It’s okay,” Philip said calmly as he vigorously scrubbed his arms and shoulders with the same soapy cloth that Tom had used. “You’re free to look.” He didn’t mind, really, especially given the intense way that Tom was looking at him. Any doubts that Philip may have had about Tom being interested in him sexually were erased the moment he saw the desire reflected in those big green eyes. Tom’s lips were parted in awe, and his high cheekbones looked even more prominent now that they were a dusky rose. The undertunic that Philip had loaned Tom gaped open at the collar, revealing much more skin than was decent. It also did nothing to tone down the master builder’s sexual appeal. Actually, letting Tom watch him as he bathed was not a very brilliant idea at all.

Thankfully, Tom seemed to come to the same conclusion because he hurriedly turned around and climbed onto the bed. It was higher than a regular bed and stuffed twice as fat with soft feathers. The instant that Tom sat on it, his eyes widened in surprise, and he nearly lost his balance when the mattress sank beneath his weight.

“This is what you sleep on every night?” Tom asked in amazement, pushing the mattress down at random intervals to see if it would spring back up again.

“Except when I’m traveling.” Philip finished drying himself off and pulled on an undertunic that was in even worse shape than the one he had loaned Tom. He tossed the water out into the rainstorm once more, before bolting the door and returning all of the items to their proper places. Then he lifted up a corner of the cloth that Tom had used to shield the goat’s milk from dust and debris. The jug was a little less than half full. “Do you have enough milk to last until morning?”

“There’s plenty,” Tom said with a yawn. “He needs to be fed often, but he doesn’t drink much.”

“Johnny will bring fresh milk in the afternoon, after the goats have been milked. If you run out before then, let me know.” Not waiting for an answer, Philip made his way over to the bed, blowing out the candles as he went. He also tossed another handful of kindling onto the fire to make sure it would last until matins. Before getting into the bed, he went around to the far side to kiss Jonathan goodnight. Then he climbed into bed, joining Tom under the warm blankets and puffed up comforter. A moment later, Tom pressed up against him, wrapping both arms around his waist. “I’m very happy that you’re here with me, Tom, regardless of the terrible circumstances.” Philip embraced Tom just as possessively, hooking his leg over Tom’s hip to bring them even closer together as he sought the kiss he had been looking forward to upon his return. Philip moved his hand to Tom’s bearded face, caressing him as he leisurely explored the master builder’s mouth with his tongue. He kissed Tom a little deeper and harder in response to the soft moans that the other man was making. When Tom’s tongue slid against his own, Philip groaned as the electric sensation caused him to harden against Tom’s thigh. Not sensing any discomfort on Tom’s part, Philip decided to go a bit further. His hands trailed down Tom’s back, feeling the lean muscles there, before moving lower. He brushed his hands past Tom’s waist, before experimentally stroking over the taut muscles of his backside. When he gripped Tom’s buttocks, he was rewarded with a soft sound that almost ruined him. Regretfully, Philip ended the kiss to nuzzle Tom’s neck, and to reposition himself before he lost control completely. Only then did he notice that he was breathing hard and sweating.

“You will surely be the death of me,” Philip sighed. He would need to silently pray in order to will his body to calm down.

Tom gazed up at Philip with those sensitive green eyes of his as Philip was leaning back to blow out the last candle on the bed stand behind him. “Will you kiss me like that every night?”

Philip was moved beyond words by the vulnerable way that Tom asked for confirmation of the permanency of their companionship. “I will,” he promised. He blew out the candle and settled under the blankets once more, holding Tom close. “Goodnight, my love,” he whispered into Tom’s ear.

“Goodnight,” Tom replied in an unsteady voice, overwhelmed with emotion.


	7. Chapter 7

Philip’s feet were cold. Very cold. The prior had just returned from prime with his leather boots caked with mud and his robe damp from the winding down rain. He hadn’t said much, just disrobed and climbed back into bed, snuggling up against Tom from behind. Tom more than welcomed Philip’s tight embrace, but he could have done without those cold toes rubbing against his bare calves.

“Philip,” Tom said sharply when he felt the entire sole of Philip’s near frozen foot graze his ankle. “Your feet are freezing!” He tried to pull away but was stunned when Philip squeezed him tighter and kept at it.

“You’re right. I’m freezing and you’re going to warm me up,” Philip murmured by Tom’s ear. It almost sounded as if he were trying not to laugh at Tom’s expense, which would be ridiculous because monks didn’t behave in such a manner. Did they?

Having spent the past half hour feeding and cleaning up after Jonathan, Tom wanted nothing more than to burrow under the blankets like a hibernating rabbit, and not surface again until he had to repeat the process. He could probably forgo breakfast in favor of getting another two or three hours of sleep. How could Philip be so perky with all the services that he had to lead? It seemed like only minutes ago that Philip had gone off to join his brethren for matins. And less than four hours after that, Philip had disappeared into the pale morning light for prime. Both times, Tom had been practically dragged out of bed as Philip insisted on having the door bolted behind him. However, Tom could hardly complain because the few hours here and there that he had slept had been blissfully pleasant.

Sleeping beside the slighter figure of the fairer sex was nothing like passing the night in the arms of a powerful man. Tom had spent many sleepless nights on the road, worrying for the safety of his wife and children. As the man of the family, it was his duty to protect those dearest to him. If faced with a thief, a rapist, or a murderer, it was Tom who would be expected to fend off such a threat. And - if the situation called for it - to drop said threat dead in his tracks. There had been numerous occasions when Tom’s family had encountered men who might have caused them harm, had they been worth the trouble. Thankfully their own state of poverty had warded those vagrants off. Nonetheless, every time they had been forced to shuffle along the barren road, single file, in order to avoid a hardened man with desperation in his eyes, Tom’s heart had filled with dread. He had always wondered, what if this time the man stopped instead of continuing on with nothing but a sideways glance? What if Tom had been forced to use his hammer or chisel for something other than the purpose for which he had bought them? What if he didn’t have it in him to bludgeon to death another human being?

Philip, with his air of confidence and overprotective nature, seemed to understand exactly what Tom needed. There weren’t any words to express how Tom felt when Philip had rescued him from Waleran. Just as there wasn’t any way to adequately describe how safe and comforted he felt sleeping in Philip’s arms. There was a strength to Philip, both physical and spiritual, that Tom was lacking. But when in Philip’s presence, Tom felt that strength extended to himself. His mind was at ease for the first time since he had set off on his own on the journey of a master builder. 

Again, Tom felt Philip’s cold wandering feet on his skin, but this time on the back of his thigh. Tom yelped in discomfort and struggled against Philip. “Do that again and I will kick you,” he threatened with mild conviction.

“No, you won’t, my love. I believe you incapable of such violence.” And then Philip began to laugh. His face was pressed into the sensitive area between Tom’s neck and shoulder, with his mouth warm against Tom’s skin. When he laughed, the sound was partially muffled, but it was a rich laughter that resonated deep in his throat.

Suddenly, Tom was wide awake again, the sensation of Philip’s warm lips vibrating against his neck causing him to moan. But the pleasant warmth and gentle touch quickly became too intense and the sensual feeling changed to something moderately uncomfortable. Finally aware of Philip’s motive, Tom desperately tried to pull away from the prior. He tried to remove Philip’s arms from his waist and, when that didn’t work, he reached back to shove his palm against the prior’s forehead, but to no avail. Philip had him at his mercy and was not about to let up anytime soon.

“Philip, no,” Tom protested, shifting to one side to avoid further contact, but Philip was relentless. Neither Agnes nor Ellen had tormented him in such a manner before. Where had Philip contracted such a fiendish sense of humor?

“No what?”

When Philip rubbed his unshaven jaw against Tom’s already tingling skin, Tom gasped and began to laugh. Nobody had ever touched him in such a way, or in that particular spot. He hadn’t even known he was ticklish there until Philip started to kiss and nip him. “Philip, please... no more.” Tom strained against his captor, now laughing so hard that he feared all his dignity lost.

“Your laughter is like a sweet balm on my heart. I think I shall continue.” And he did, the stubble from his face and his teasing lips assaulting that weak spot until Tom was left gasping for breath and in tears. Only then did Philip stop. “Feeling better?”

Tom finally turned over to face Philip, having been released from that impenetrable embrace. His sides hurt and he could barely speak, but he smiled when he saw the adoring look on the prior’s handsome face. Those clear blue eyes were dancing with mischief, warning Tom that Philip might attempt another attack soon. “What inspired that?” Tom breathlessly asked.

“I merely sought to release the tension from your body,” Philip replied with a grin.

“Is that all?”

“No. I confess that I wanted to hear you laugh. In all the time we have spent together, neither you nor I have really felt... relaxed. But now that there can be no intrusions, we can behave however we wish.”

Tom wrapped an arm around Philip’s neck, pulling him down into a languorous kiss. He closed his eyes to concentrate on the sensation of the prior’s tongue slipping into his mouth as Philip took over. Letting Philip take charge, as he had the habit of doing, was very arousing. How far would Philip go before he took things outside of Tom’s comfort zone? If it still existed at all. The more they kissed and touched, the less inhibited Tom felt, and the more he longed for.

“Tom, my love...?” Philip began between kisses, his expression mixed with curiosity and confusion.

It amazed Tom how a simple term of endearment had the power to flood his heart with extreme happiness. “Must you talk now?” He complained, grasping onto Philip’s broad shoulders to prevent him from moving too far away.

“I can’t help it. Something has been bothering me since matins.”

“And that would be...?”

Stroking his fingers over Tom’s cheek, and then through his beard, Philip took his time in composing his response. “I entered the mason’s lodge you had constructed on the west side of the cathedral site. There were some... how shall I put it?... irregularities piling up inside.”

Now fully distracted, Tom stared up at Philip, his curiosity piqued. “What kind of irregularities? Is the structure not sound?” Tom had overseen the construction himself, although he hadn’t actually worked on the lodge because he had been too busy inspecting the stones from the fallen cathedral to see which ones were worth reusing. That and instructing the remaining men on how to properly dig a foundation.

“I’m not referring to the building itself. It’s just that...” Again Philip paused, acting as if he were doing his best to speak tactfully. “The angel you carved for me is beautiful, though not nearly as beautiful as you.” At that compliment, Tom found himself blushing. “And I don’t mean to say that the others are not strikingly eerie... in their own way...”

Others? _Eerie_? “Oh.” Tom realized what was puzzling Philip.

“Or grotesque,” Philip continued, straying away from being tactful and just voicing his opinion, as he was accustomed to doing. “To be honest, Tom, I was slightly disturbed to see carvings of what appear to be human sacrifices, writhing in agony with their mouths gaping open and their eyes bulging out.”

“Those carvings aren’t mine,” Tom said simply, alleviating Philip of any further embarrassment.

“They aren’t? Oh. I see.” But Philip really didn’t get it. “But there is no one else living in these precincts who has your talent, or anything close to it.”

“Perhaps not yet. But Jack has untapped talents that, while different from my own, may far surpass mine in the future.”

“Jack?!”

Tom knew what Philip was thinking. Why Jack and not Alfred? If Alfred was Tom’s biological son, shouldn’t he be the one to inherit the mason genes? Tom had seen enough poorly constructed houses, palaces, and churches to know that the skills of a mason were not the product of genealogy, but rather education, commitment, and inspiration. Although it saddened Tom to think such thoughts about his son, he knew that Alfred would not be the one to carry on his legacy. If anyone had any hopes of succeeding him, it was the boy that Ellen had left in his care - the boy who was to now be his surrogate son.

“Yes, Jack. His style may be somewhat crude at this stage, but he is improving at an alarming rate.”

“And you would explain his tortured subjects how?”

“Childhood trauma. Ellen said that he witnessed something horrific, but she wouldn’t elaborate.”

“Ah. That would explain why he says very little.” Philip lay back down and closed his eyes, lost deep in thought. There was something else he wanted to say, something unrelated that was the real source of his concern. “How did you sleep last night?”

Why would Philip bother asking such an innocuous question? If anyone should know how Tom had slept, it was the man who had slept beside him. “Better than I have in quite some time. Why do you ask?”

Appearing contemplative, Philip shirked off the question by asking another of his own. “Were you cold?”

Now mystified by Philip’s evasiveness, Tom brushed off the question with a quick response. “No. I was very warm and comfortable. You saw to that. What made you think I was cold?”

Philip opened his eyes again to give Tom a piercing look. “For one thing, your voice is quite raspy this morning. Do you have a sore throat?”

So that was what this was all about. Tom’s throat usually felt dry and scratchy at the end of the day, but more so in the mornings. It was an uncomfortable sensation that irritated him more often in the colder months. Over the past year or so it had become progressively worse, until Ellen had started to brew him a sweet concoction of honey mixed with some refreshing herbs to drink with breakfast and supper. Tom had never asked her for a list of the exact contents that she left floating at the top of his cup. He trusted her unconventional wisdom and medicinal expertise. Aside from that, he hadn’t thought the matter important enough to discuss, especially not in front of Alfred. Knowing Alfred’s tendencies, he was likely to accuse Tom of being drugged and brainwashed by a witch.

“It’s just a little dry. Ellen usually makes me something to drink with supper and breakfast that alleviates the discomfort.”

“I didn’t see you drinking anything out of the ordinary last night.”

“I forgot to make it last night.” Tom didn’t mention that Ellen was the one who usually made it for him because he sensed that Philip still had mixed feelings towards her. Whether it was because Philip had been forced to antagonize Waleran by aiding her escape, or because he still viewed the woman as a rival, Tom could not guess.

“Then you still have some of it left?”

“Do I sound that terrible?” Thinking that Philip was overreacting to a minor ailment, Tom nonetheless humored him by pointing to his toolbox, which was taking up a significant patch of space under the dining table. “There’s enough to last one more week, at most.” Tom was expecting to see Ellen again long before he ran out of the woman’s home remedy. Persecuted or not, Ellen would not forsake those she cared about by running away and hiding. That was not her style. She was headstrong and bullish in all aspects of her life. Not even an unscrupulous bishop could force her to heel.

Much to Tom’s amazement, Philip got out of bed and went straight for the tool box. In his bare feet. The room was now bathed in strips of yellow morning light that shone through the narrow window openings, rendering the lit candles on the far side of the room unnecessary. And the glorious burning fire, which Philip had fed again upon returning from prime, filled the center of the room with a cheerful warmth. Despite all that, Tom wouldn’t have been foolish enough to place his bare feet on that cold stone flooring. While cleaner and more civilized looking than the plain dirt that covered the ground of the guesthouse, and most other common accommodations, a floor made of stone leeched the heat out of one’s flesh. On top of that, they took forever to dry once wet, making them unbearably cold during and after a rainstorm.

Tom checked on Jonathan while Philip threw open the toolbox and began rummaging through its contents. The baby was fast asleep, having no new complaints to cry about after Tom had seen that all of his needs were met. Aside from his fearful outburst after having heard the sound of thunder for the first time, Jonathan was relatively quiet. He was a well behaved baby. Nothing like his siblings had been like at that age, if Tom remembered correctly. Martha had been clingy and quick to cry if left alone for too long. Alfred hadn’t cried so much as thrown temper tantrums when something wasn’t to his liking. But Jonathan seemed to enjoy touching and observing things in his own quiet way, only reminding the adults of his presence when left unattended for too long.

“Is this it?” Philip held up a thin leather purse with a loosely tied drawstring.

“Yes, but please don’t trouble yourself. I can make it myself.”

“Nonsense. You are my guest so I will make it. What is it anyway?” Opening the drawstring, Philip brought the purse close to his nose and gingerly inhaled. “Honey?” He gave Tom a slightly guilty look as he shook a large white chunk of crystallized honey into the palm of his hand. “So this is why you smell and taste of honey.”

“What other reason would there be for it?” Then Tom remembered Ellen, and Philip’s own admission of jealousy. Suddenly he had no desire to hear what Philip thought the honey had been used for. “There are herbs at the bottom. You just need a pinch of them and two portions of honey.”

“Right.” By the looks of it, Philip was not going to share his previous speculations on the honey. He just went about setting a small pot of water over the fire to boil, before measuring out the required ingredients into a large clay cup. It didn’t take too long for the water to boil over the roaring fire. Philip carefully removed the pot with a pair of tongs, placing it directly onto the stone floor. After ladling some of that bubbling hot water into the cup, he returned to the bed with it. “Careful, it’s scalding hot,” Philip warned as he passed Tom the cup.

“Thank you.” Tom took the cup with both hands and held it close to his face, breathing in the familiar sweet scent of honey, and allowing the steam to moisten his dry throat. It also made him feel more alert as it worked wonders for his tired eyes.

“He has your eyes.”

Tom felt the mattress descend on his left side as Philip returned to bed. Only this time, he was holding the baby. It warmed Tom’s heart to watch Philip interacting with Jonathan. Philip seemed to have a natural inclination towards fatherhood for he guarded the baby with a parental anxiety that only a father could understand. He was forever double checking to ensure that Jonathan was bundled up securely, and that his eyes were clear and responsive. Perhaps he spoke to Jonathan in a peculiar manner, addressing him as an adolescent instead of a baby, because Philip really had no experience with baby talk. But all in all, Philip was as kind and attentive as a father ought to be.

“Do you think so?”

And then Philip’s hand was caressing Tom’s face, his thumb tracing over Tom’s eyebrow. “I would recognize these expressive green eyes of yours anywhere. That’s how I was certain he was yours.”

As if realizing he was being talked about, Jonathan reached up with his small hand to rake his fingers ineffectually against the short stubble on Philip’s unshaven face. He was used to grabbing for Tom’s beard and acted disappointed when he could find nothing to pull at on Philip’s jaw.

Tom lowered his cup to the bed, holding it fast between his hands, as Philip leaned over for a kiss. Philip’s hand swept over his face, cupped his cheek, and then Tom was being kissed soundly. Tom sighed and eagerly gave himself up to the kiss, absently feeling tiny fingers trying to wind themselves into his beard as Jonathan was nearly squashed between them. Being kissed by Philip was like nothing Tom had ever felt before. Philip was dominant and passionate, while still maintaining a gentleness that belied his strength. Every time they kissed, it felt like kissing for the first time. And each time they parted it was with a great reluctance.

An impatient pounding at the door caused Philip to pause, and Tom to tense up. Even though Philip had told him not to worry, Tom could not help stressing over the thought of Waleran barging in on them. He didn’t want to be the cause of Philip’s exile, nor did he want to give Waleran a legitimate excuse to beat him. Catching him in Philip’s bed, together with Philip, might just be the reason Waleran needed to hurt them both.

“Tom?”

Tom’s heart was beating quite fast, and his breathing had become rather shallow by the time he met Philip’s gaze. Philip was giving him that look again. That deep, penetrative look that said he could not be fooled. And then he was gripping Tom’s shoulder in a gesture that was half supportive, half alarmed.

“You need to calm down.”

But the pounding continued and Tom began to feel lightheaded, the sound of his own breathing frightening him. His airways felt dry and tight, and a wheezing sound emanated from his own throat as he desperately tried to gasp for more air.

“Tom!” Philip placed Jonathan down, into his lap, and pressed both hands firmly against the sides of Tom’s face. “Look at me!” The prior’s expression was the perfect picture of control as he willed Tom to relax, but his shining blue eyes betrayed his true feelings. He was just as panicked as Tom was. “That’s it. Focus on my voice. Breathe in... and out... slower.” In the background, the pounding went on at regular intervals, but Philip ignored it, concentrating on regulating Tom’s breathing. “Breathe in... hold it... slowly exhale.” Tom did as he was told, all the while aware of the harsh beating of his heart. He could hear his heartbeat resonating in his ears and wanted nothing more than to silence it. And his throat was becoming drier with each desperate intake of air that he sucked into his lungs. The tightening in his airways gradually began to lessen, until it became easier to replenish the oxygen in his starved lungs. Once he had gotten his breathing under control, thanks to Philip’s calm resolve, Tom closed his eyes and sat there trembling.

“Cease that racket, at once!” Philip shouted at whomever was outside the door. “I will attend to you when I am good and ready!”

The now warm cup was removed from Tom’s hands and held up to his lips.

“Drink it. A little at a time.”

At that point, Tom couldn’t produce a single sound to thank Philip for helping him through whatever it was that he had just experienced. His throat was too raw and there was still a lack of oxygen in his lungs. He could only sip at the warm honeyed water, too thirsty to care that he was also swallowing the herbs that had yet to sink to the bottom of the cup. Philip did not take the cup away until Tom had finished every last drop, herbs and all. Only then did the prior kindly stroke Tom’s cheek and place the startled, wide-eyed baby into his lap.

“Sit still with your eyes closed. I’ll return momentarily.”

Tom reclined back against the pillows, too drained to question what had happened to him, or why. He kept one unsteady hand on Jonathan and clutched the other over his heart, willing it to settle down.

The door opened with a loud creak, and then a voice could be heard from outside.

“Philip, what in God’s name is the matter with you?”

_Brother Cuthbert_. Tom easily identified the old cellarer’s voice. The short monk with the greying hair was nearly a generation older than Philip and tended to treat the prior with a casualness that annoyed some of the novices. Tom knew this because he was often regarded as a good, non-judgmental listener. People had the habit of confiding in him when they were too drunk to fully appreciate his unresponsive company. While he would politely listen to whatever it was the person had to say, he would rarely comment on the criticism shared. Even so, Tom had almost made an exception for Cuthbert when the monk had revealed his theory on Jonathan’s origins during a supper indulged with too much strong ale. Tom had longed to chastise Cuthbert for leaning over to him at the supper table, far too close to be polite, and then whispering loudly in his ear that he thought Jonathan was the offspring of an abusive man and a whore. Although generally well-meaning, Cuthbert gossiped worse than an old maid.

“What is the matter with me?” Philip retorted without a semblance of the composed manner that he usually spoke to his fellow monks with. “Have you no decency? Hammering on my door like a madman?”

“Well, what was I to think? You didn’t answer the first time, nor the second. You could have been dead for all I know,” Cuthbert retaliated, sounding rankled.

“Never mind that. What was it that you needed?” In the span of a few seconds, Philip’s tone mellowed out and became amiable once more.

“Can I not come in?”

Tom made an effort to turn towards the door, still breathing hard from the strange fit that had overcome him. He could see Philip standing in the doorway, blocking it with his tall form and the arm that he refused to drop from the doorframe.

“No, you may not.”

“I don’t see what the big secret is,” Cuthbert grumbled. “We all know where Tom and the baby slept last night, and it wasn’t in the dormitory with the rest of us.”

“If you know where they slept, then you should understand why I feel the need to protect their privacy.”

“Okay then. Have it your way.” Cuthbert sounded defeated. “I didn’t come here to argue with you. I just came here to relay a message from Bishop Waleran.”

At the mention of Waleran’s name, Philip cast a nervous glance at Tom, indicating that he knew the source of Tom’s distress. Tom nodded at Philip, showing him that he had not been affected a second time. He was too tired to have much of a reaction at all. At least the honey had done a good job of soothing and lubricating his throat, making him feel more relaxed and comfortable. It was also possible that Ellen had slipped a little something extra in there to help numb his senses.

“What is the message?”

“The bishop feels that you are neglecting your duties by not taking part in the communal meals served in the refectory. I know that you requested that someone deliver your breakfast to you this morning... as well as Tom’s, but the bishop says that he won’t tolerate anymore of your... um...”

“My what?” Philip demanded to know.

“Insubordination.”

“My insubordination,” Philip repeated without emotion. “Well, you can go back to Bishop Waleran and tell him that Tom and I would be _delighted_ to join him in the refectory for breakfast. Just as soon as we are done discussing this week’s agenda for the cathedral.”

“Are you sure everything is alright, Philip? You sound... off... You haven’t been yourself since you spirited that woman away. I hope that you sent her far, far away because if the bishop finds out where she’s gone...”

“Not here and not now,” Philip cut him off.

So Cuthbert was a co-conspirator in Ellen’s escape. Whatever else Cuthbert may be - be it the resident gossip or a man growing bitter with age - Tom could not fault him for his loyalties. This man was one of Philip’s allies and needed to be respected as such, regardless of his indelicate nature.

“I’ll see you at breakfast then,” Cuthbert prepared to end the awkward conversation when Philip said no more. “Oh, and this is from Johnny. He missed Jonathan so much that he got up at the crack of dawn to milk the goat. And Tom’s little girl is making a fuss about her hair. She claims that Ellen braids it every morning for her. I hope Tom knows something about braiding and ribbons because no one else is willing to do it.”

“Thank you, I shall let Tom know.”

As soon as he had shut the door, Philip carelessly placed the new jug of goat’s milk down onto the dining table with a heavy thump, and rushed back to the bed. He relieved Tom of Jonathan, returning the baby to his makeshift basket bed, and took the empty cup away.

“Come here.” Philip enveloped Tom in a shaky embrace, pressing one hand firmly up against Tom’s chest, over his heart. “You scared the life out of me,” he confessed in an agonized voice.

“Sorry,” Tom tried to say, but found that he could barely speak above a whisper.

“Has this happened before? Is that what the medicine from Ellen is meant to treat?”

Tom shook his head. He had never experienced anything like that before and hoped to never go through it again. As for Ellen’s medicine, it was only aimed at resolving a dry throat, or so he thought. She had started giving him the honey mixture when his reaction to the dry air in the mornings and evenings had worsened. He had just assumed that she wanted to ease his discomfort. What other reason would she have for insisting that he drink the medicine twice a day?

“I thought you were going to die of asphyxiation.” Something in Philip’s voice said that this wouldn’t be the first time that he had been faced with the threat of losing someone dear to him. In fact, he sounded very, very upset. “After breakfast - _immediately_ after breakfast - I am taking you to see Joseph the infirmarian.”

Not capable of arguing, even if he had wanted to, all Tom could do was lean back against Philip and feel awful.


	8. Chapter 8

“Martha, be a good girl and collect your father’s breakfast for him.” Philip cautiously patted Tom’s young daughter on the head, encouraging her to move forward in the line.

Martha, only too happy to oblige if it meant pleasing her father, turned to give Philip a cheerful smile, before quickly catching up to the monk who was waiting ahead of her. There were monks of all shapes and sizes patiently awaiting their breakfast this morning. Not many were short, and a few were tall, one of them even taller than Philip, but Martha was dwarfed by them all. The little girl was a noticeable minority and stood out as such - one female in a room filled with thirty-two men and six boys on the verge of manhood, including Alfred and Jack. She didn’t seem to notice, or mind, for she was very chatty this morning. There still remained a shadow of grief over the sudden death of her mother, but otherwise, she appeared to be coping with her circumstances quite well. Children could be so resilient. Philip knew firsthand just how well a child could adapt to a new environment after the loss of a parent, if given the proper support and guidance.

“I got my own room last night,” Martha bragged to Philip as she combed her fingers through her long brown hair. It was loose and straggly, and in need of a good brushing, but there hadn’t been enough time for that before breakfast. Afterwards, Philip would see what he could do if Tom was not feeling up to it.

“Did you now?” Philip asked, exaggerating his surprise.

“Well, not really. But Johnny Eightpence - do you know him? - hung sheets from a rope to make it seem like a separate room,” she replied excitedly.

“How marvelous,” Philip said. He would have to compliment Johnny on his ingenuity as soon as he got the chance. There hadn’t been any extra space anywhere else in the monastery that had been suitable for a young girl to sleep. And Philip had been averse to leaving Martha alone, especially at night, which is why he had instructed that she be taken care of along with the boys. None of the monks had complained, at least not yet, so apparently no one had been too offended by her presence.

“And he made me a doll out of a piece of wood and some horse hair. Do you want to see it?”

On any other occasion, Philip would have played along and asked to see the doll, but today he was trying not to attract attention. He was already carrying Jonathan close to his chest in a sling, and sooner or later someone was bound to notice that he had lent Tom his new cloak to wear for the day. The last thing he needed was a child’s toy drawing the eyes of the obedient monks that he kept company with.

“Perhaps later,” Philip refused kindly. “We shouldn’t bring toys into the refectory, Martha. It’s a place for eating, not playing.”

“I know. Father said the same thing to me last week,” she said with a heavy sigh.

As the line moved forward again, Philip cast a worried glance at the wooden table on the opposite side of the room. There was only one person seated on the bench over there, leaning onto the tabletop with his elbows, with the hood of his cloak pulled up over his head. The generic brown monk’s cloak was long and thick, and the hood deep, hiding the face of its wearer in shadow. On Philip, the cloak fit perfectly, dropping down just past his ankles, and molding to the width of his shoulders. On Tom, it dragged on the ground and left room to spare. But it served the purpose of protecting Tom from the freezing morning air and concealing his identity. With the addition of the cloak, and the absence of any interaction on his part, Tom was having no difficulty blending in.

Waleran had yet to make his appearance, but if he did show up before Philip had a chance to pick up his breakfast and return to the table, he would not be able to harass Tom. One could not threaten what one could not find.

The line was moving along faster now, with a new batch of wheat rolls being carried out of the kitchen on a large tray. One young novice was ladling steaming hot porridge into bowl after bowl, while another novice ripped open the steaming hot wheat rolls and stuffed them with pickled eel. Just past them was a table stacked with cups, a pitcher of watered down beer, and an assortment of reddish green apples.

Up ahead, Philip saw Jack holding out his tray for a serving of porridge and an eel roll. After both the bowl of porridge and roll were balanced out on his tray, he moved on to help himself to an apple and a cup of beer.

The line shuffled forward again, and this time Philip watched as Alfred shoved his way up to the novice responsible for dishing out their breakfast. As the novice was placing the bowl of porridge onto Alfred’s tray, the mason’s apprentice reached over to snatch two rolls from the table. He hurried off before the novice could say anything, helping himself to three apples that almost toppled over the edge of his tray, before greedily filling his cup so high that it overflowed.

Inside, Philip was seething with anger. He would not tolerate such barbarous behavior. Not in his priory, and not from an ungrateful boy who was setting a very poor example for his impressionable sister. It irritated him further when Alfred chose to sit at the table closest to the door, separating himself from his father and sister. And from the red-haired boy who had undoubtedly been raised with a lot more manners.

“Good morning, Prior Philip,” called a low, grumpy voice.

“Good morning, Brother Simon.” Philip returned the greeting as he crossed paths with one of the older monks who was on his way back to the eating area.

Simon stopped alongside Philip and spoke to him in a harsh whisper. “I have nothing against the girl, but those two boys are nothing but trouble. They were at each other like a pair of wild boars last night. Brother Adam got punched in the face when he tried to separate them. You should see his eye! All swollen up like a melon. You’ve got to do something about them, Prior Philip.”

_For the love of God!_ When was it going to end? Not only did Philip have Waleran to contend with, a baby to care for, and Tom to worry about, but now he was being asked to play referee to two adolescent boys who ought to know better. It wasn’t like he didn’t know who the instigator was, but Jack was not blameless for he had allowed himself to be goaded into contributing to the violence.

“And was Brother Adam the only one who attempted to subdue those rowdy children?” Philip asked in a tone that was half accusatory and half annoyed.

“Tom’s son is so _big_ ,” Simon blurted out by way of excuse. “And Jack fights like a wild, cornered animal.”

“I shall deal with them sometime this afternoon,” Philip promised, restraining himself from bringing up the fact that the majority of the monks were older than both himself and Tom. If they didn’t have it in them to command the respect of two rebellious boys, what hope would they have with anyone who visited the priory? Thankfully Adam had taken it upon himself to intervene in the fight, although it was really too bad about his eye. Philip was about to say more when a loud sneeze cut him off. “Is someone sick?” He turned around, trying to pinpoint the source of that sneeze when someone coughed in another direction.

“Yeah. Bishop Waleran’s men-at-arms.” Simon tried to keep a straight face as he caught Philip up on the details. “The bishop made them stand guard outside the guesthouse, all night. It’s no wonder they’re sick and a miracle they’re not dead.”

That was certainly not Philip’s problem. Let Waleran survive unguarded for a day. Or, better yet, maybe the bishop would feel uneasy without adequate protection and choose to return to the depressing palace from whence he came.

Once Philip had picked up his morning rations, he followed Martha back to the table where Tom was sitting. Most of the monks were choosing to fill up the other two tables first, avoiding the lone mason whose posture was altogether unwelcoming. Philip never would have let any of his monks get away with the antisocial way Tom was now presenting himself, with his hood completely covering his face and his elbows impolitely resting on the table. Upon closer inspection, Philip realized that Tom was dozing off. Although Tom was no longer displaying any of the symptoms that had assaulted him earlier on, the event had left him feeling lethargic and unresponsive.

“Tom.” Philip set his tray down on Tom’s right, and then helped Martha with her overburdened tray. “Martha has brought you your breakfast.” He smiled when Tom blinked sleepily up at him. Although Tom was not the type to verbalize his feelings, he could do nothing to tone down the expressiveness in his eyes and features. His eyes, in particular, gave his thoughts and emotions away quite easily. And the way he was now looking at Philip was overwhelming. Any uncertainty that may have lingered in those gentle green eyes before last night had been entirely replaced with love and admiration. Philip had been careful in his handling of Tom, not wanting to spoil whatever future they might have together by pushing things along too quickly. But now, Philip was confident that he needn’t hold back any longer. Any number of things could have gone wrong with their sleeping arrangements last night, but the fact that they hadn’t reinforced Philip’s belief that fate had selected for him an ideal companion with whom he could spend the rest of his life. “Have you an appetite for some porridge and eel?”

“I’m famished,” Tom replied with enthusiasm. “Thank you, Martha,” he said warmly to his little girl who hopped onto the bench beside him.

“You’re welcome, Father.” Martha hugged Tom, and then shoved her hand inside his hood, giggling when she found his face. “Are you hiding from something?” To her, it appeared as if her father was playing some kind of exclusive game, which she was only too keen to join in on.

“Perhaps I’m hiding from _someone_ ,” Tom suggested with only the faintest trace of amusement.

Philip sat down on Tom’s other side and found himself faced with the studious expression of the red-haired boy. Jack had taken a seat opposite Tom and was observing both him and Philip with some interest. There was a bruise on his left cheek, no doubt from where Alfred had punched him, and the knuckles of both hands were scabbed over with dry blood. Although younger and lighter than Alfred, Jack didn’t strike Philip as the type of boy who would whine over his shortcomings. He seemed to be no stranger to violence either, perhaps because he had survived in the wilderness with his mother from a young age. He could take a beating as well as dish it out. _Like mother, like son._

And now Philip was faced with a dilemma. Should he be the one to tell Tom how Alfred had deprived one of the monks of an eel roll, and two of an apple? Cuthbert always counted out everything accurately. There had been enough eel rolls and apples for every person currently staying at the priory to have one each. If one person took more than his fair share, another was left without. As Alfred’s father, it was Tom’s duty to instruct his son on the proper manners of society. Whatever injustice Alfred caused the priory, Tom was directly responsible for. However, if Philip brought up one thing, he would inevitably have to discuss the other - namely the fist fight in the dormitory. Tom abhorred violence and instinctively shied away from it. How would he react when told that his son seemed to thrive on the pain and unhappiness of others? On top of that, Philip had witnessed Tom’s previous attempts at putting his son in line, and none of them had been effective. It seemed unfair to blame Tom for Alfred’s actions when Tom was doing his best to mitigate the damage, albeit unsuccessfully.

“Philip, is something the matter?”

Philip met Tom’s worried gaze with a bright smile. “I was just wondering how Jonathan can sleep with all this noise going on in the background.” No, he would not bother Tom with Alfred’s behavior. At least not for the time being. He still wanted Tom to be seen to by the infirmarian to ensure that there was nothing physically wrong with him. In the meantime, Philip would treat Alfred like any of the novices under his care. He would mete out any punishment that he saw fit to give a boy who did not fear authority.

“Jack, what happened to your face?” Unfortunately, as luck would have it, Tom was not blind.

Jack gave Philip a look that was impossible to interpret, before casually touching his cheek. “The dormitory is dark at night. I walked into a corner of the wall on my way back from the latrine.”

“Be careful next time,” Tom lightly scolded the boy, being taken in by the lie.

It was depressingly cold and damp in the stone hall that the monks regularly took their meals in. The rainwater had gotten inside through the high windows on either side of the refectory. There were still puddles near the walls that had been missed during the morning cleanup. And the benches closest to the windows were spotted with dark wet patches that would not be pleasant to sit on. Due to the high ceilings and the relative height of the unevenly spaced windows, providing light for the refectory proved to be a daily challenge. There were never enough candles to go around, thanks to the poor management of both the priory funds and the inventory, and there were too many duds among the ones that they did have. Restocking the priory candles from a more reputable chandler was on Philip’s to-do list. Right below purchasing another horse or pony for the stables. Preferably a horse.

“Prior Philip, how nice of you to join us.”

Philip bristled upon hearing Waleran’s sarcastic voice. And beside him, Tom made a startled sound that was thankfully too low for anyone standing to pick up. “Good morning, Bishop Waleran,” Philip greeted with ample courtesy. He willed all emotions from his voice and set his expression into an unreadable mask before looking up at the fiend. “I trust you slept well?”

“You’ve been away from the refectory for too long,” Waleran said as he sat down beside Jack. Like a lap dog on a short leash, Remigius hurriedly took his place by his master. “The prior must sit with the subprior and any distinguished guests, such as myself. The mason and the children do not belong at this table. Send them to the far end of the last table so that they may sit with the novices.”

Ignoring Waleran’s air of superiority, Philip secretly gripped Tom’s hand under the table as he leaned forward to engage the bishop in a battle of wits. “By your very definition, Tom Builder deserves to be seated with us. As the master mason appointed to work on our cathedral, our house of God, Tom is indeed a distinguished guest. And his children also by association.”

“If you are trying to rile me—,” Waleran began in an outraged tone.

“I believe it’s time for the morning prayer,” Philip abruptly cut Waleran off, bowed his head, and began to chant. His deep voice set off a chain reaction and soon every monk was joining in on the prayer, droning out whatever else Waleran wanted to say. “Amen,” Philip said solemnly at the end of the prayer. Before Waleran could start up again, Philip took a large bite of the eel roll, then set it down and dipped his spoon into the porridge. He squeezed Tom’s hand, coaxing him to do the same. The only solution to Waleran’s harassment was avoidance. At least in a crowded room. Philip would never forgive Waleran for attempting to mistreat Tom, or for making his vile threats against an innocent baby. But he couldn’t allow his feelings to show on his face or to be heard in his voice. While he was prepared to do whatever was necessary to protect the man and child that he now considered to be his, he still had to show deference to Waleran because of the bishop’s elevated status. He could do nothing unless provoked.

Making an effort to appear indifferent to Waleran’s presence, Tom began to methodically eat his breakfast, starting first with the porridge and then going after the eel roll. He was too hungry to let Waleran come between him and his meal. He did, however, leave his hood up, either intentionally or out of forgetfulness.

“Enlighten me, Tom. Wherever did you get that cloak?” Waleran asked after trading a conspiratorial look with Remigius.

Put on the spot, Tom hastened to answer and relieve Philip of any wrongdoing. “I borrowed it from Philip, seeing as how my own cloak is too badly damaged to wear.”

Philip would have gladly given Tom the cloak, even if Waleran hadn’t destroyed what was left of Tom’s own tattered cloak during the rainstorm.

“You borrowed it from _Philip_ ,” Waleran repeated loudly, drawing the attention of several of the monks who were sitting not far off from them. “Not Prior Philip, then? Just Philip. Have you no respect for a man chosen by God?”

“N-no, I meant no disrespect,” Tom stammered.

“Just as you mean no disrespect by leaving your face shrouded at the breakfast table?”

Before Tom could respond, or Philip could think of something to say in his defence, Remigius eagerly joined in on the confrontation. “What do you expect of a man who harbors a known fugitive, my lord bishop,” Remigius said rhetorically. “And in his bed, no less.”

The sharp intake of breath that Tom took frightened Philip. He still had no idea what had happened to Tom earlier on, but he most assuredly did not want it to happen again. Especially not in front of the two vultures who were in search of blood.

“Well, now it is Tom who is in Philip’s bed,” Waleran casually pointed out.

Pressing Jonathan’s face into the folds of his cloak to protect him from the cloud of animosity that was hovering over their group, Philip spoke to Waleran in a low, threatening voice. “Either you back off of him - _now_ \- or I will tell all the monks here about your scheme to steal the Shiring quarry and forests for your new palace.”

“Do that and I will have you promptly removed from this place - for all eternity,” Waleran matched Philip’s volume and smiled bitterly at him.

“You will lose the respect of every man in this priory before you manage to get rid of me,” Philip promised. “Perhaps they will even petition the king in order to appoint a new bishop to Kingsbridge - one who actually cares about its prosperity.”

“Why would they listen to a prior who sleeps with his mason?” Waleran challenged, now beginning to sound unsure. Philip was not some spineless lackey who cowered when put into a corner and Waleran knew it. What Waleran didn’t know was whether Philip was bluffing or if he really would follow through on his threat if pushed too far.

As soon as that lewd insinuation had left Waleran’s twisted mouth, Jack turned on the bishop. “You’d better watch what you say about Tom,” he warned. A boy of his age was knowledgeable enough about sexual matters to know what was being implied. Thankfully girls of Martha’s age were more innocent for she was looking from one adult to the other in blank confusion.

“As opposed to listening to a bishop whose predecessor conveniently died the day before I was to be elected prior, thereby ensuring my reciprocal vote?” Philip went on, preventing Jack from speaking again because he did not want to involve the children in their affairs.

At that accusation, Waleran’s face turned a dangerous shade of red. “You have no proof.”

“Who is to say that I don’t?”

“Philip, please stop this.” Tom placed his hand gently overtop Philip’s closed fist in an effort to pacify his anger. “The children and I will move to the other table so that you may speak to Bishop Waleran in private.”

Although Tom’s heart was in the right place, his sense of politics and fighting tactics couldn’t have been more misguided. By offering to leave the table, he was conceding defeat, not fostering peace. He had also forgotten - once again - to refer to Philip by his title. But his worst gaffe was the familiar way he touched Philip, in public. Philip had held Tom’s hand under the table, but Tom was now covering Philip’s fist on top of the table. Philip couldn’t hold it against him because the mason was ignorant of the rules - both written and unspoken - that existed in the church. However, Philip was now left with no choice but to either reprimand the man that he adored, or risk losing his power over the monks.

Waleran smirked and looked at Philip expectantly. He knew what was going to happen next and he was delighted. Even Remigius seemed to be anticipating the destruction of Philip’s relationship with Tom. Because if Philip exerted his authority over Tom, he would be promoting inequality in their relationship, which would ultimately lead to heartbreak. Tom needed to know that he could count on Philip for affection, as well as support, regardless of the setting. If Philip erected a barrier between them now, it would set an unhealthy precedent for the future. Tom would lose confidence in Philip’s convictions and Philip would hate himself for treating the mason so coldly.

“Tom, I wonder if I might take up a few minutes of your time?”

Startled by the sudden interruption, Philip looked up to see Cuthbert standing over Tom’s shoulder. Where had the old monk come from and how had he managed to sneak up on them? Or, perhaps the more important question should be why was Cuthbert deliberately ignoring the hostile environment that he had walked into?

“Brother Cuthbert,” Tom exclaimed, remembering both the monk’s name and the proper way to address him. “What can I help you with?” The relief was evident in his voice, as well as the way he leaned towards Cuthbert, and away from Waleran.

“Have you finished your breakfast?” Cuthbert asked, still pretending not to notice Philip’s questioning gaze, or the awkward way that Tom removed his hand from atop Philip’s clenched fist.

“Not entirely, but I can take the roll with me. Ph—,” Tom faltered as he looked at Philip. “Prior Philip, may I be excused?”

“Of course, Tom.” Philip felt the tension leave his neck and shoulders as soon as Tom left the table, pulling Martha along with him. And, when Jack got up to follow them, Philip stopped gritting his teeth and relaxed his jaw.

“Perhaps I should take Jonathan with me as well...?”

“That would be an excellent idea.” Philip pulled the sling off over his head and helped secure it across Tom’s shoulder. As he did so, the baby began to fuss, and Philip took that as an opportunity to step into Tom’s personal space. He adjusted the blanket that was swathed around Jonathan, while speaking to Tom under his breath. “Meet me in the infirmary after you have assisted Brother Cuthbert with... whatever he needs assistance with. It’s on the second floor of the dormitory, down the hall from the sleeping area. And steer clear of Waleran’s men-at-arms.”

As soon as Tom and the others were out of sight, Philip sat back down to apply himself fully to the battle that awaited him. _Bless Cuthbert and his uncanny sense of bad timing,_ Philip thought to himself. Thanks to the old cellarer’s interruption, Philip had been relieved of the pressure of having to choose between his flock and Tom. Now he would be able to speak to Tom in private so as not to shame him in front of so many people.

“That was most unfortunate,” Waleran said, sounding disappointed. “How I would have enjoyed seeing that mason put in his place.”

“Your quarrel is with me, not Tom,” Philip reminded Waleran. It had been Philip - not Tom - who had gone against Waleran, double crossing him at the last minute after he’d learned of the bishop’s motives to take the Shiring quarry and forests for his own personal use. “If you wish to attack someone, attack me and leave Tom out of your personal vendetta.”

“My dear prior,” Waleran drawled with mock sympathy. “By hurting Tom, I will thereby be hurting you. Why do you think we are instructed to break all worldly ties when entering the church? It is so that we may not be influenced or held back by those that would make us weak. Take Remigius here, for example. He is my most loyal subordinate and is therefore a valuable asset, so long as he continues to prove himself useful. But, if he ever fails me, or outlives his usefulness, I will cut him loose without a second thought.” Up until that point, Remigius had been dutifully nodding in agreement, but even he looked taken aback by Waleran’s bluntness.

“I never intended my actions to be construed as a personal attack on you,” Philip explained, swallowing his pride so that he might appease Waleran’s thirst for vengeance. He was now beginning to get a sense of the level of deranged madness swimming inside the bishop’s head. If left unchecked, there was no way of telling what drastic measures the bishop might resort to in order to settle his feud. “Everything I did, I did in the name of the Lord. The only thing that I wanted was a suitable cathedral for Kingsbridge. A beautiful cathedral where the people can worship God and spread the word of His glory.” Before Waleran could get a word in edgewise, Philip continued with his peace offering. “You and I will have to work together often in the foreseeable future, my lord bishop. The monks, as well as the residents of Kingsbridge, will look to us both for guidance and stability. It would be in our best interests if we were to set the past aside and concentrate on building a positive working relationship for the future. I am willing to forgive the personal attacks you have made on me if you agree to let go of your hostility and withdraw your threats.”

“Oh, how it must pain you to deflate that prideful ego of yours.” Waleran mocked Philip’s little speech, smiling thinly when Philip recoiled as if he’d been slapped in the face. “Regretfully, I must decline your insincere offer at peace.” He stood up, motioning for Remigius to do the same. “You’ve made your bed, Prior Philip, and now you must sleep in it.”

Philip watched Waleran and Remigius leave the refectory, doing his best to keep his face expressionless so that the monks would not suspect what had transpired between the leaders of their flock. But inside, his nerves were all in knots, his blood seemed to have forgotten how to circulate, and his head was pounding. If he had known that rebuilding the cathedral would cause him this much trouble, he never would have pursued the project. Now he was cut off from the bishop of Kingsbridge and Tom was in mortal danger. And, according to that snake Waleran, it was all Philip’s fault.


	9. Chapter 9

“I don’t understand,” Tom said with some confusion as Cuthbert set Jack and Martha to work recounting all the barrels of fruit in the chilly underground cellar. “From what I recall, you finished inventorying all the apples, pears, plums, and bitter oranges upon receiving shipment of them on Tuesday.”

“That’s right,” Cuthbert said mysteriously as he led Tom away from the fruits, through an arch, and into a separate room that was used for storing the wine that the monastery produced in its vineyards. Absolutely no natural light penetrated this far deep into the cellars, and the single candlestick that Cuthbert carried hadn’t a hope in hell of illuminating his face, much less a cavernous cellar.

Tom cradled Jonathan close to his chest so that he wouldn’t injure his son if he accidentally walked into a wall or tripped over one of the heavy terracotta jars of wine that were lined up inside the room. “Then why have them do it again?” This was the exact type of inefficient behavior that irritated him. More time and money got wasted on redoing tasks and correcting mistakes than anything else.

“It bothers you, doesn’t it?” Cuthbert teased. “Watching someone counting out the fruits, one at a time, when you could probably come up with the precise number without even touching the barrels.”

Admitting to such a thing was impolite and arrogant. Tom would rather pretend that he had no idea how many fruits there were in total than criticize Cuthbert’s hard work. “Not at all. What bothers me is the process of doing it over again,” he replied honestly.

“You can be terribly naive at times, Tom. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why Philip is so smitten with you. Oh yes, I know all about your blossoming love affair with our rigid prior.” Cuthbert went on, either unable to sense the discomfort that he had stirred in Tom, or not really minding it. He leaned back against the cold stone wall, with the candlelight blasting harsh, hollow shadows under his eyes, nose, and chin. Since he was significantly shorter than Tom, looking down on him made him appear all the more distorted with the flickering exchange of light and shadows. “The children are recounting the fruits because it will keep them occupied while we... _chat_. And I’m sure that you’d prefer to be chatting with me as opposed to Bishop Waleran.”

“Why have you brought me here, Brother Cuthbert?” Tom asked, beginning to lose his patience with the older man. He didn’t want to confirm Cuthbert’s suspicions by admitting to anything that was being said, mainly because he still wasn’t sure if the cellarer could be trusted. But perhaps his feelings stemmed from a personal bias towards the monk, one that had been created the night Cuthbert talked trash about Jonathan’s birth parents.

“To save you from embarrassment, and to prevent you from witnessing Philip being manipulated by what has become his worst enemy. You see, Bishop Waleran really brings out the worst in Philip. Normally, Philip is a prideful disciplinarian who can’t be shaken off of his moral high horse. His personality type, although harsh, is just what this priory needs in order to flourish once more. We need reform of just about every process and procedure, and Philip is the only one who can accomplish that. But when in the presence of Bishop Waleran, Philip takes his moral superiority too far. He underestimates his enemy and then is left floundering for some way to backtrack. Bishop Waleran plays Philip like a well worn fiddle, and Philip never ceases to react when his strings are plucked.”

“Philip is a good man - a brave and noble man,” Tom said defensively. “Bishop Waleran is the one who has pushed Philip too far with his condescension, ulterior motives, and open threats.”

“You see, Tom, neither you nor Philip have the experience or wisdom to properly deal with a man of Bishop Waleran’s caliber. You are both young and ignorant of your own flaws, which the bishop would expose and use against you. Even now, you speak ill of the bishop while still having your doubts about me. Your desire to defend Philip overrides your own common sense. Just as your need to prevent him from behaving uncharacteristically created quite the scene back in the refectory just the now.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to.” Tom had neither raised his voice nor spoken disrespectfully to anyone at the breakfast table. He couldn’t imagine what Cuthbert was accusing him of.

Cuthbert gave a dramatic sigh and his shoulders drooped in exasperation. “It really isn’t my place to say this to you.”

“I believe that you’re going to tell me, whether it’s your place or not,” Tom said with some bitterness. “You have a talent for sharing your jaded opinion on matters that you know nothing about.”

“Jaded opinion?” Cuthbert repeated, sounding baffled. “When have I ever said anything to offend you?”

Instead of responding to the question, Tom distractedly stroked his fingers through the wispy brown hairs on Jonathan’s head and over his cherubic face. He let the baby reflexively grasp his index finger to play with, content with the fact that his son was alive and well. Jonathan had been conceived out of love, and had been brought into the world safe and healthy - against all odds. He was not the discarded product of some sordid coupling between a prostitute and her client of the hour. Cuthbert be damned for believing otherwise.

“Tom, I promise you that I am on your side. Philip and I are best friends. We would do anything for each other. That includes removing you from the refectory before Philip is forced to punish you for your impropriety.” When Tom looked over at Cuthbert sharply, the old cellarer hurriedly explained himself. “Philip touched you indiscreetly, from under the table. The only reason why I noticed is because I was actually looking for evidence of Philip’s affections for you. But you were seen caressing Philip’s hand by at least four of the other monks. Such illicit physical contact demands immediate punishment. At the very least, Philip would have had to force you to repent in front of the entire refectory.”

A profound sadness filled Tom’s heart at the thought of having to show remorse over his feelings for Philip. “I couldn’t have done that,” he said quietly. “It is a sin to tell a lie.” Cuthbert didn’t comment and there was silence in the wine cellar for several minutes. “So if anyone were to find out about our relationship, we would both be condemned,” he said fatalistically. Why had Philip led him to believe otherwise?

“No, that is not what I said.” Cuthbert pushed away from the wall to peer through the archway, checking to make sure that Jack and Martha were still hard at work counting fruits. Satisfied that they would not be disturbed, he continued speaking. And what he said next shocked Tom. “It is not uncommon for two men to become romantically involved in a monastery, or anywhere else in the clergy for that matter.There are even two monks in this very monastery who have been together for over a decade. Most of us either accept or pretend not to notice these companionships. So long as they are handled discreetly.”

“Are you saying that the monastery attracts men who only have an interest in other men?” Such a concept was too unorthodox for Tom to mentally digest. He had led a rather sheltered life in terms of his sexuality up until recently. Before Agnes, he had been attracted to no one - neither male nor female. During his long marriage to his now deceased soulmate, his eyes had not strayed to another, not even for a fraction of a second. Nor had he felt the attention of any other man or woman centred on him. After Agnes’ untimely passing, he had been temporarily roused into feeling something for Ellen - a warm intimacy that had failed to completely fill the void that losing Agnes had created. But then he had met Philip and everything Tom thought he knew had been washed away by the tidal wave of emotions that the prior stirred in him. It had never occurred to him to question his attraction to another man. He had allowed himself to be romanced by Philip because of the kind, loving person that Philip was. It had nothing to do with being into men or losing interest in women.

“Sometimes it does. Just as often as it includes men who cannot rid themselves of their lust for women. Or men like myself who find it impossible to cut all worldly ties with their family. Living a life of seclusion is not so easy, Tom. We are all but mortal men - prone to temptation and in need of some form of companionship.” 

“You say that these _companionships_ must be handled discreetly... How is that possible in a place where everyone functions as a group? You eat together, you sleep together, you pray together... When might one find time to be alone with his lover?” The more Tom thought about it, the more disillusioned and depressed he became.

“There are many opportunities for those who have an imagination,” Cuthbert said lightly. “And you are in a unique position, having caught the eye of the head of this priory, who just so happens to have his own private sleeping quarters.”

Tom cleared his throat uncomfortably and looked away, hoping that Cuthbert wouldn’t be able to see him blushing in the dark. That was not what he had been referring to. Even though he was looking forward to experiencing much more with Philip in the bedroom, he would never express such a desire in front of Cuthbert, or anyone else for that matter. What went on between Philip and himself behind closed doors was sacred and private. “I meant sharing time together... outdoors,” Tom clarified.

“That isn’t as difficult as it might seem, so long as you don’t flaunt your relationship in the face of others. Or, at least it shouldn’t be that difficult. Your main problem is Bishop Waleran. He is using your connection to Philip as leverage in order to force Philip to comply with his wishes. Of course Philip also has information that he is holding over the bishop’s head, but the question is whose bluff will be called first? It is uncommon for a brother to turn on another brother, but it has happened before.”

At that point, Tom felt that he had heard enough. “If someone were to approach Bishop Waleran with a compromise, do you think he would listen? And, if satisfied with the proposed compromise, would he leave Philip and myself in peace?”

“Maybe... Who’s to say really? He doesn’t strike me as a particularly reasonable man, but he might budge if the pot is sweet enough.”

“Thank you, Brother Cuthbert, for your candidness. There is much that I have to think about.”

“If there is anything else that I might help you with...?” 

“I’d appreciate some time alone, if you don’t mind.” Tom retraced his steps through the darkness until he was back in the holding space for a season’s worth of fruits. He could hear Cuthbert behind him, shuffling along at a pace that was more comfortable for his aging years. “Oh, and please do me a favor and keep Jack and Martha occupied for the next hour or so. They could both benefit from some practice in arithmetics.”

“It would be my pleasure, Tom. Any friend of Philip’s is a friend of mine.”

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Tom said neutrally as he carefully transferred his precious bundle into Jack’s waiting arms. “Please take care of Jonathan until I return. Or until Brother Johnny finds you. I didn’t see him at breakfast this morning.”

“Sure thing, Tom.” Jack gave Tom an obedient nod and watched him ascend up the stairs that led back into the daylight.

***

“Cuthbert! Are you down here?” Philip swept the palm of his hand blindly along the smooth stones of the cellar, feeling for where the candle had been placed last. He had already been to the dormitory, the infirmary, the stables, and the guesthouse, having had no luck in finding Tom anywhere. While he was used to some of the more rebellious monks disobeying him, he had been surprised and displeased upon failing to locate Tom at their promised rendezvous point.

“Philip? Is that you?” Cuthbert shouted up at him.

At the bottom of the stone staircase Philip saw a flicker of light. It was a weak pinprick of yellow so far down, but still better than nothing. If Philip tripped and fell, he would have something to aim for. “Yes, it is I.” He descended the staircase, one step at a time, until he burst into a room that was a disorganized mess of fruits. Apples were piled high on top of a long wooden table in the center of the room, pears were grouped together in sets of ten on several of the shelves, and oranges were strewn all over the floor. As Philip entered the storage area, he caught sight of Martha chasing after the oranges on her hands and knees. “What in blazes are you up to down here?” He demanded of Cuthbert.

“Teaching arithmetics,” Cuthbert replied from where he was lying on the floor. His arm was stretched out under one of the bottom shelves, presumably in search of a lost piece of fruit.

“Where is Tom? Is he down here with you?”

“He left about half an hour ago.”

Philip whirled around at the sound of an additional voice so close behind him. Then his eyes narrowed as he realized that it was Jack who had spoken. He grew even more unnerved when he noticed that the boy was holding Jonathan in his arms.

“He left Jonathan with you and just took off?” Philip asked in disbelief.

“Tom trusts me with Jonathan,” Jack replied peevishly.

“Tom doesn’t always have the best judgment.” The words slipped from Philip’s lips before he could organize his thoughts. He was met with a cold, challenging stare, and Jack’s refusal to hand over the baby. “Cuthbert, do you have any idea where Tom went?”

“None whatsoever,” Cuthbert answered in a careless tone. “We were having a conversation and then he suddenly had somewhere better that he had to be.”

“That isn’t true.”

Again, Philip turned to Jack, putting aside his dislike for both the boy and his mother so that he could get a straight answer out of someone. “Explain yourself.”

“Cuthbert told Tom he had sinned by touching you at the breakfast table this morning. He put it into Tom’s head that the two of you can’t be together unless Waleran backs off. Where do you think Tom went after listening to that bullshit?”

“You did _what_?!” Philip shouted at Cuthbert. His sudden outburst startled Cuthbert, causing the old cellarer to knock his head on the bottom shelf in fright.

“Damn it, Philip. There’s no need to get so excited over nothing,” Cuthbert complained as he got back to his feet, holding his injured head and cursing. “Jack couldn’t have overheard more than bits and pieces here and there. He doesn’t have the full story. I didn’t know when - or if - you were going to talk to Tom about the rules here, so I did it for you. He asked if talking things over with Bishop Waleran might make a difference and I thought it couldn’t hurt. Tom might actually succeed where you have failed.”

There was no malice or criticism in Cuthbert’s voice, but Philip let him have it all the same. “You should _not_ be meddling in my affairs, no matter how good your intentions are! You’ve just sent a lamb to be slaughtered by a wolf!”

Philip stormed back over to the stone staircase, doing his best not to make eye contact with the boy who was staring at him levelly, or the little girl who darted out of his way when he got too close. The fact that Cuthbert had suspected his interest in Tom didn’t phase Philip at all. What did cause his stomach to churn in anger was the nerve his friend had to upset his love life.

“Surely you’re overreacting, Philip,” Cuthbert sputtered in distress. “Tom didn’t say he was going directly to the bishop. Besides, Bishop Waleran is hellbent on destroying you, not Tom. There is no need for—.”

“Yesterday Waleran attempted to flog Tom,” Philip angrily informed Cuthbert. “Had I not intervened...” But he didn’t want to think about that. Not now. “Waleran _will_ hurt Tom to get to me - he has threatened as much. In addition to making threats against this innocent child,” he said as he jerked his hand in Jonathan’s direction.

“You can’t be serious,” Cuthbert protested, his voice full of sincere regret.

“I’m dead serious. And, if you truly did imply that Tom and I can’t be together unless Waleran is appeased, then I guarantee you that Tom went straight to him to do just that.” Not waiting around to listen to more of Cuthbert’s excuses, Philip took to the staircase in a desperate bid to outwit fate. He flew up the stairs, his long stride taking two steps at a time, and risking certain injury should he stumble and come crashing down the way he had come.

As soon as he was outside again, Philip sped across the muddy compound, nearly losing his footing several times in the thick muck that the ground had become. He crossed through the cloisters, which were still deserted at this time because most of the monks had yet to finish tidying up after breakfast. At the other end, he came out onto the construction site for the new cathedral. He passed that as well and went straight for the door leading to the underground crypt. That would have been the last place where he might have searched for Tom, but the first plausible location where he expected to find Waleran.

Yanking open the wooden door, Philip slipped into the entrance to the crypt, closing the door behind him. Although his whole body was humming with energy, he didn’t have a particular plan of action in mind for dealing with Waleran. He also didn’t know what he was expecting to find. What if Waleran had already gotten his hands on Tom? What if Tom had been subjected to some form of excruciating torture? Just the thought of his beloved being hurt or crying out in pain had Philip envisioning his hands wrapped around Waleran’s throat, choking the life out of him.

At first, there were no sounds inside the crypt save for Philip’s laborious breathing. And then, the deep masculine sounds of a holy man chanting echoed up to the landing that he was standing on. There was no mistaking Waleran’s voice, or the nature of his solemn prayer - he was asking for forgiveness. For what? Was Philip too late?

Philip rushed down the stone staircase, trying not to make any noise so that he might catch Waleran unawares. The crypt was better lit than the cellar, but not very well maintained. There were cobwebs everywhere, dust accumulating on the shelves that housed the skulls of saints long dead and gone, and many short candle stubs that had yet to be thrown away. As Philip placed his foot on the second to last step, he thought he felt movement brush past his ankle. It felt too large to be a rat, but if not a rat, then what? If the rats were growing as big as cats down here, Philip dreaded to imagine what they were living on.

At the bottom of the staircase, Philip held his breath, said a silent prayer, and peered into the candlelit room that was being used as a temporary place of worship. His line of sight led him directly to Waleran, who was kneeling in front of the altar at the head of the room. On either side of the narrow aisle were rows and rows of shelves that were covered in the filth of time and decay. More skulls were displayed haphazardly on some of the higher shelves, while the lower ones were used for storing less superstitious artifacts.

There was no sign of Tom at first. Philip didn’t know whether to feel terrified or relieved when he realized that Waleran was alone. Just to be safe, he intended to confront Waleran as soon as the bishop was done praying. But, as he was combing the interior of the crypt with his anxious gaze, he came across a shape that did not fit in with the rest of the morbid furnishings. Up by the second to last row, crouched behind one of the shelves near the wall, was a hooded figure. Philip would have missed the incongruent shape entirely if he hadn’t been so thorough in his visual inspection of his surroundings. _Tom_? There was no mistaking the posture of the master mason, or the soft brown leather boots that belonged to no monk.

Resuming his stealthy behavior, Philip lowered his body closer to the ground and slowly crept up on his target. Tom seemed to be too focused on Waleran to be worried about being attacked from behind, so Philip had no trouble in getting close enough to grab him. He wrapped one arm around Tom from behind, restraining him, while he clamped his other hand over the mason’s mouth. “Don’t make a sound,” he hissed into Tom’s ear, waiting until recognition changed Tom’s expression from one of shock to immediate relief. “What foolishness is this then?” He released Tom when he was sure that there would be no unexpected sounds that might alert Waleran to their presence.

“I came here to pray,” Tom whispered by Philip’s ear. “But I was interrupted by Waleran and Remigius. I overheard them plotting at the top of the stairs... There is only one way in and out of here. I couldn’t let them catch me after what I’d heard them discussing, so I hid. Remigius left a while ago, but Waleran just won’t go away.”

“I thought that you were going to take on Waleran on your own,” Philip whispered in a low voice full of anguish. “You had me so worried.”

“I’m sorry,” Tom apologized with complete sincerity. “I wanted to offer Waleran a compromise... I thought that maybe we could share the resources of Shiring... But one look at him and...” Tom broke off and lowered his head in shame.

“Those are called survival instincts,” Philip said as he grasped Tom’s hand firmly. “Never doubt them. We both know this to be a dangerous man. He is not to be negotiated with, especially not on your own.” Philip sighed with relief when Tom nodded in acquiescence. “He is nearly done praying and should be out of here soon. Once he is gone you can tell me what it is that you have overheard.”

Up at the center of the room, Waleran crossed himself and got up from his kneeling position, stretching a bit to get the kinks out of his worn knee joints. He was not a man who believed in exercise and the stiff way he moved reflected that. However, instead of exiting the room, he began to remove the heavy, jewelled pectoral cross that he wore around his neck. Laying it out carefully on the lectern in front of him, he pulled off his skull cap next, followed by his rich dark purple cape.

“What is he doing?” Tom whispered in disgust. “Surely he doesn’t mean to disrobe down here.”

That was certainly not Waleran’s intention. When the bishop was left wearing nothing but his pristine embroidered undertunic, Philip’s heart leapt into his throat. _He can’t mean to do that here_ , he silently protested. _Not in front of Tom._ But when Waleran picked up the black leather whip that he had tried to beat Tom with, and snapped it off experimentally against his opposite forearm, Philip groaned in horror. He quickly stole a glance at Tom’s face. The master mason was watching Waleran in a sort of trance, his light green eyes projecting nothing but confusion and innocence. Tom had no idea what he was about to witness. Even if he had, the information alone wouldn’t have been enough to prepare him for what was to come.

A split second before Waleran raised the whip high and slashed it downwards again, Philip grabbed Tom a lot harder than he had the first time. His hand covered the soft lips that he loved to kiss, and the dark beard that he enjoyed stroking his fingers through, pressing so firmly that he worried he might leave bruises. But the instant that whip ripped into Waleran’s back, tearing the bishop’s expensive undertunic, and opening up the flesh beneath it in a stream of gushing red blood, Philip knew he had done the right thing. He barely managed to muffle the scream that Tom made, his own heart twisting in pain as his beloved struggled against him. Had Philip been a lesser man, he wouldn’t have been able to hold Tom still when the mason pushed backwards with his heels digging into the rough, dirty floor. Before Tom was done reacting to the first lashing, Waleran was snapping off a second one. While the bishop gave a mild grunt of discomfort and jerked a bit as more blood sprayed the floor and shelved skulls, Tom moaned loudly in outright terror.

For any commoner, this was not an unusual reaction to witnessing a grown man - and a high ranking member of the clergy no less - participating in an act of self-flagellation. This was not a performance meant to be seen by outsiders. It was taboo to speak of it, much less have it be viewed by spectators.

Philip held Tom tighter when Waleran lashed himself a third and fourth time, grateful that the bishop was so into his masochistic delights that he failed to hear the noise that Tom was making. All the same, Philip couldn’t chance Waleran learning of their presence. “Avert your eyes,” he breathed into Tom’s ear. He wrapped his cloak protectively around Tom as he dropped his hand from the mason’s mouth. Tom buried his face against Philip’s chest with his eyes tightly shut, clenching fistfuls of Philip’s robe in his hands as the perverse sounds of Waleran’s self-mutilation went on. Feeling helpless that he couldn’t spirit Tom away from such a macabre display, Philip could only keep his arm tight around the mason’s shoulders, softly stroking his dark hair and pressing reassuring kisses to his forehead. He also thanked the heavens that Tom hadn’t brought the baby with him.

After a while, Waleran began to wind down, his whipping arm falling limply at his side. He crumbled to his knees, panting with exhaustion. But his face hardly registered any pain. If anything, his expression was one of deep satisfaction.

When Waleran began to get dressed again, covering his shredded, bloody undertunic with the layers that he piled on top, Philip said a silent prayer of thanks. Any more of that and Philip himself wouldn’t have been able to fight off the nausea that Waleran’s grotesque performance had inspired. After he’d centred his pectoral cross over his robe, Waleran splashed some of the holy water from a basin near the altar onto his face, dried it again on his sleeve, and strolled out of the crypt in a perfectly dignified manner.

Even after Waleran was out of sight, Philip counted to fifty, waiting for the door upstairs tobe shut, not wanting to chance the bishop coming back down again. Only then did he change his brutal hold on Tom into a possessive embrace. “I hope that I have not hurt you. I’m so sorry you had to see that, my love,” he apologized with a tremor in his voice. “That is not something that a member of the secular community should ever learn of, never mind witness firsthand.”

“He is possessed by the devil!” The hood fell back from Tom’s face as he whirled around in paranoid fright at the sound of another plump rat darting across the floor. His eyes were wide and filled with tears, and his complexion was sickeningly pale.

“No, he is not,” Philip said, faking a calmness that he did not feel. Worrying that Tom might faint, he stayed on the ground with him, not knowing how much should be said about what had just transpired in front of them.

“How can you deny it?” Tom demanded, sounding a bit too hysterical as he began to breathe harder. “You saw him. He was trying to expel the devil from his body.”

Philip automatically recognized the same symptoms that Tom had exhibited earlier on in the morning when he’d been unable to breathe. Loss of color, distressed breathing, trembling... But this time, Tom was coughing dryly in between breaths. Philip had been praying that whatever had assailed Tom before would never repeat itself. His prayers had apparently gone unanswered.

Not knowing what else to do, Philip held Tom close and began to stroke his back in what he hoped was a soothing manner. If he could alleviate some of Tom’s fears, perhaps he might be able to stop the attack before it could fully take hold of the mason. “What I am about to tell you is something you must never share with anyone else. Not all monks are aware of this secret, but the ones that are have been expressly forbidden from discussing it with outsiders. You must promise me that you will never utter a word about this with another person.” When Tom gave an imperceptible nod, his breathing now stricken with dry wheezing, Philip hurriedly dove into an explanation for Waleran’s behavior. “Although Waleran’s act of self-inflicted violence may have seemed like devil worship, it was anything but. It is a radical form of penance - a begging of forgiveness for an unspeakable sin. Even monks and priests sometimes fall prey to temptation, committing atrocious acts of violence or betraying the trust of those who depend on them.”

“How could it be a form of penance...?” Tom paused to catch his breath, his tone indicating that he had yet to be convinced of the nature of Waleran’s performance. “He looked as if he were...” For a second, Tom hesitated, but not because he was incapable of speaking. Rather, he looked embarrassed and unwilling to continue.

“In the throes of an orgasm?” Philip finished Tom’s thought with extreme distaste. “You are right. He was getting off on it, which is why this topic is never discussed openly, even amongst my brothers. What we refer to as self-flagellation starts off innocently enough as a means of repenting for one’s sins. But it quickly turns into a perversion where the line between pain and sexual gratification becomes blurred.”

“So he is not possessed?” Tom asked to be sure.

“No, he is not.” Philip noted that Tom’s breathing had quieted down somewhat. Tom trusted him completely, willing to overcome his own superstitions in favor of believing what Philip claimed to be true. “Usually, the intensity of the flogging is a direct reflection of the severity of the crime. In Waleran’s case, we cannot rule out rape or murder as a possible motivator.” Before Tom could express his surprise at that statement, Philip solidified it with proof. “There have been cases in the past - some recent - where a monk has forced himself on a woman, or killed a man over a trivial matter. Some bishops are guilty of more calculated attacks like poisoning their enemies. They have also been known to employ mercenaries to do their dirty work for them. And that is why I have explicitly warned you to stay out of Waleran’s sight. You can’t bargain with him or pray that he will show you mercy. And I can’t protect you if I don’t know your whereabouts.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Tom apologized. “I just felt so frustrated when Brother Cuthbert told me that I shouldn’t have touched you at the breakfast table. Apparently we aren’t allowed to touch each other at all in public.”

“Brother Cuthbert means well, most of the time, but he had no right to discuss such a sensitive issue with you. I will decide what we are allowed - or not allowed - to do in public. Not Brother Cuthbert. And not that monster Waleran.” Philip couldn’t help but smile when Tom’s mood brightened a little upon hearing that. “Had I known that you craved my affections this much, I would have touched you a lot more this morning,” he said flirtatiously, hoping to lighten the atmosphere further.

But Tom was still not to be mollified. “I can’t bear to be parted from you,” he confessed in a raggedly breathless tone full of emotion. “And I refuse to ask for forgiveness for falling in love with you.”

 _Falling in love with me?_ There was that one word - the one word that Philip had wondered if he would ever be the subject of - _love_. He had gone through what seemed like an eternity, watching others fall in love, blessing them for their happiness, and trying not to envy the precious gift that God had bestowed on them. But always, at the back of his mind, deep in his heart, he had wished that he would find someone whom he could love - and who would love him back just as fervently. He had craved a partner that he could cherish and protect, someone that he could hold in his arms and share his dreams and innermost thoughts with. Tom was everything he had desired, and more. Shortly after meeting the master mason, Philip had sworn to himself that he would not let anyone else have him. So powerful were his feelings for Tom that he had demanded that no one - not even Ellen - be given permission to touch the mason ever again. At the time it might have been risky to push Tom so quickly in the one direction, but Philip’s estimation of the mason proved to be correct when Tom didn’t hesitate to comply with his demands. Philip had never known love before, but he had been sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that he loved Tom with that first awkward kiss they shared.

While Philip had already begun to make plans for their future together, he had never anticipated his love being returned with such conviction. He would have settled for Tom being physically and emotionally attached to him, but he hadn’t expected the mason to genuinely love him back.

“Philip, what’s wrong? Have I said too much?”

When Philip returned his gaze to the mason’s attractive face, he found that everything was out of focus. It took him a moment to figure out that it was because his eyes were welling up with unshed tears. He hastily brushed them aside with the sleeve of his robe when he saw the heartbroken expression on Tom’s face. Tom’s light green eyes - so like the color of the sunlit sea - were overflowing with tears, and the mason’s lips were quivering with sorrow. Tom had mistaken Philip’s tears of joy as a sign that his love was soon to be rejected.

“Dear God, no!” Philip said hastily, cupping his palms to those high cheekbones and using his thumbs to gently dry Tom’s tears. “Your words have warmed my heart, as well as my soul,” he murmured, moving in closer to brush his lips over Tom’s in a soft kiss. “Tom... my precious, sweet angel...” He kissed Tom again and pulled back to watch the mason’s sadness turn to elation when he spoke again. “I love you so desperately that I find myself overcome with emotion. I swear to you, we will never be parted for I will never let you go. No matter what adversity we may face in the days, months, and years to come, we will face it together.”

“You have made me so incredibly happy.” Tom took hold of Philip’s right hand and kissed his palm, before rubbing his cheek against it.

“But you are still trembling.” Philip pulled Tom into his arms once more and attempted to transfer some of his body heat to the unsteady mason. “Are you cold, or are you still affected by Waleran’s—?” Philip fell silent when Tom frantically shook his head.

“Please... don’t bring that up again. Not now.”

“Perhaps it would be best if we left this place now. We can continue our conversation after a short visit to the infirmary.” It would probably make the infirmarian’s job a lot easier if Tom were brought in exhibiting some of the symptoms that were troubling him. As much as Philip preferred to remain alone with Tom, his concern for his beloved’s health forced him to do what was best.

When Tom nodded in agreement, Philip gingerly pushed himself up off of the hard floor, feeling his cramped body painfully protest. He brushed the dust and sand off of his robe and cloak, stretched, and then reached down to help pull Tom to his feet. Suddenly, he was knocked backwards when Tom pushed against him, wrapped both arms around his neck, and leaned up to kiss him. Philip returned the kiss with just as much passion, nearly lifting Tom off of his feet with the intensity of his embrace. They stayed that way for a short while, just kissing and savoring their private intimacy.


	10. Chapter 10

Of all the places that the long-forgotten master mason of Kingsbridge Priory had chosen to install windows at a height level to a man’s torso, why did it have to be the infirmary? Aside from the window sills being so low that they barely reached Tom’s waist, the size of the windows themselves was obscene. There were three such gaping large windows in the infirmary - big enough to throw a man through. While Tom could appreciate the increased air flow throughout the room, which reduced the offending odors of the sick and dying, he couldn’t help but question the sanity of anyone who would place a hospital bed so close to an elevated space of open air. One wrong move and an ailing, disoriented patient might mistake the window for the aisle, rolling off the bed and out the window where they would certainly meet their death on the rocky ground below.

“How much longer must I wait?” Tom asked Philip in a tone that he hoped wasn’t audible to the other people in the room.

Philip placed his hand heavily between Tom’s shoulder blades, out of sight of the infirmarian and the two patients who had arrived ahead of Tom this morning. Whether the touch was meant to be supportive or to force Tom to remain where he was, Tom could not guess. The prior was standing behind him so as not to attract attention, and therefore Tom could not see his face. As always, Tom found the sensation of Philip’s strong hands on him comforting and reassuring, even through the many layers that he wore on yet another cold winter’s day. He particularly liked the heavy cloak that Philip had loaned him because it was a constant reminder of the secret intimacy that they shared. Wearing it was like being wrapped up in Philip’s love and warmth, as well as the enticing smell of him.

“I’m sure it won’t be much longer,” Philip said, sounding unconcerned. But the next minute he was calling out to Joseph in annoyance. “Brother Joseph, we have been made to wait for nearly an hour. How much longer do you anticipate your current examination will take?”

From across the room, Joseph glanced up at Philip from where he was hunched over a patient - one of Waleran’s men-at-arms. The nervous twitch in Joseph’s left eye, as well as the way he was perspiring, did not exactly inspire confidence in his medical expertise. Nor did the fact that he had several medical journals open up on his desk, which he repeatedly returned to in order to consult, or to confirm his findings. He was a young man of about twenty or so, tall and sprightly, with light brown hair and a pink complexion. At the moment, his face was red and blotchy from his rising anxiety.

“I’ll be just another minute, father prior,” Joseph promised for the fifth time that hour.

From the bed on the other side of the room, the bishop’s second man-at-arms rolled onto his side to relieve another wet-sounding coughing fit. He looked like death warmed over with his waxy white face and bloodshot eyes. Tom’s own difficulties with breathing had subsided before he’d arrived at the infirmary. He didn’t feel like he had the right to occupy one of the hospital beds while he currently had no symptoms to speak of. And the disapproval in Philip’s eyes and deep commanding voice gave Tom cause to suspect that this infirmarian did not meet the prior’s high standards.

Philip had been on edge ever since Tom had repeated the gloating words he heard Waleran say back in the crypt. ... _he’ll be dead by nightfall with no one the wiser as to the cause. Neither of those fools will think to check that which quenches his thirst_ , Waleran had said with a cruel laugh. Seconds later, Philip was racing back to the cellar, with Tom tiredly lagging behind him. The order that Philip gave Cuthbert sent the old cellarer hurrying back into one of the darkened rooms that Tom hadn’t had the pleasure of exploring - the room that held the beer and ale. Philip had instructed Cuthbert to open each and every barrel, checking the alcoholic beverages for any signs of tampering or contamination. Even Tom had felt pity for Cuthbert. Such an arduous task would take the poor monk all day and night to complete.

After another ten minutes, Joseph finally left the bedside of his current patient, but it was not because he was done with him. Rather, the deep crease of consternation between his thin eyebrows, and his impatient mutterings revealed that he had given up on man-at-arms number one.

Tom disliked hospitals and doctors and made it a point to keep himself healthy so he wouldn’t find himself in need of either. From his personal experience, sick people sought out medical help that eventually left them with one foot in the grave, and the injured were cast out after having had one limb or another removed unnecessarily. And then there was all the nonsense about purging and bleeding. Absently, he wondered what was in the unstoppered jars that were standing in unsorted chaos on the shelves lining the far wall. By the looks of things, Joseph himself had no idea as it was probably he who had opened them all in the futile attempt to understand their contents.

When Joseph got within five feet of Tom, Philip suddenly bolted forward to stop the monk from getting any closer. “ _Brother Joseph_ ,” he began in his most scathing tone. “Are you not forgetting something?”

“Um... no... I don’t think so,” Joseph replied in a mess of confusion. “Am I?”

 _Good God, you can’t be serious!_ Tom nearly shot off the bed upon hearing what was supposed to be the head physician asking the prior if he had indeed forgotten something. Like his medical qualifications perhaps?

“You just had your hands in that man’s mouth and God knows where else,” Philip roared at Joseph mercilessly. “Have you no sense of proper hygiene?! Wash your accursed hands this instant!” Philip’s unforgiving gaze tracked Joseph across the room, to the basin of water that lay unused in a corner of the room. “With soap,” he added when it didn’t seem like Joseph was going to bother with it.

Once he’d washed his hands, Joseph approached Tom again, but this time he was casting Philip resentful looks out of the corner of his eye. There would be no danger of Tom receiving preferential treatment from Brother Joseph today.

“What are your symptoms?” Joseph asked perfunctorily when he was close enough to begin examining Tom.

“Difficulty breathing and lightheadedness,” Tom replied shortly, not wishing to exaggerate.

“As well as coughing and wheezing,” Philip added.

Joseph grasped Tom by his jaw, turning his head this way and that, looking into his eyes, his ears, and then prodding him to open his mouth. “I don’t see anything,” he announced once he had finished.

“That’s it?” Philip asked in surprise.

“What do you mean?” Joseph shot back haughtily. “Difficulty breathing and coughing - page forty-five - obstruction in throat. I checked. He’s got no obstruction in his throat. End of story. And he isn’t having trouble breathing now, so he must’ve swallowed whatever it was that got stuck in his throat. Or imagined the whole thing.”

 _And this is why it’s better to die in one’s own home than become an experiment to an idiot physician_ , Tom thought to himself. Ellen was absolutely right where the medical community was concerned. “Ph—,” Tom started, only to quickly correct himself. “Prior Philip, there are many things that I must get done today. I’ve wasted enough time here as it is.”

“Wasted _your_ time?” Joseph exclaimed. “You come in here with phantom symptoms and think that it’s your time that’s been wasted?!”

“You will watch your tone with him,” Philip cut in before Joseph could say anything further. “How dare you speak to a patient like that? How did you come to be the infirmarian here? You evidently have no clue as to what it is that you’re supposed to be doing. You’ve begun to bleed that man over there without even completing his diagnosis,” he accused with a wave of his hand in the direction of the first man-at-arms. “While you leave that other man unattended and coughing so hard that I fear his ribs might splinter. Have you or have you not any medical experience, Brother Joseph?”

“Define medical experience,” Joseph retorted smartly.

“School,” Philip bit back condescendingly. “A formal education. Experience with the sick and injured.”

“No.”

“No?!”

That did it! Tom hopped down off the bed and came to stand by Philip’s side. He felt awful for inadvertently drawing Philip’s attention to yet another problem that needed to be dealt with in the Kingsbridge priory, because the prior was already burdened enough as it was. Would Philip take the blame if one or - heaven forbid - both of Waleran’s men-at-arms were to waste away under Joseph’s incompetent care? 

“How is it that you are now in charge of a practice you know literally nothing about?” Philip interrogated Joseph with that husky, authoritative voice of his.

This side of Philip reminded Tom of a great black bear, and Joseph the cocksure youth who would not have any manner of beast challenge his privileged rights. But while Joseph may have poked the beast from behind, thinking it was no more than a docile raccoon lying in his path, he now realized his judgmental error as he was confronted by a mighty force that rose up to tower over him, fangs and claws gleaming.

“B-Brother R-Richard...I r-refused, but he insisted,” Joseph stammered, automatically backing down for fear of enraging Philip further.

“Brother Richard forced you to take this position?” Philip asked, the confusion evident in his blank expression. “But we don’t have a Brother Richard stationed at this priory.”

“No, father prior,” Joseph said with a shake of his head when Philip stepped closer to him for confirmation. “Brother Richard was our previous infirmarian... but he died. Suddenly. Subprior Remigius told me to take over... There was no one else.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been blindly treating patients here, with no clue as to the methods or potions that you subject them to?!”

The underlying anger was so palpable in Philip’s voice that Joseph looked as if he were about to burst into tears. “Basically... yes.”

“Jesus Christ!” Man-at-arms number one swore, having overheard the entire exchange between Philip and Joseph. Luckily the other mercenary was too immersed in his own suffering to have been following the revelation that he was nothing more than a shyster’s guinea pig in this sham of an infirmary. “The whole lot of you monks are really something, do you know that?” The lucid mercenary sarcastically laughed at the predicament that he now found himself in. First he’d been treated like an expendable guard dog for the bishop, and now as an experiment for a monk who seemed to think that the skills of a physician automatically came with the title.

“They are both suffering from exposure,” Tom quietly said to Philip. “Their bodily fluids should be replenished, not depleted. And they should certainly not be bled.” When Philip turned to him with a mixture of astonishment and skepticism in his clear blue eyes, Tom wished that he had said nothing at all.

“And how do you know this?”

The church fanatically believed in balancing the four humors of the body through bloodletting, purging, and hell knows what else to such an extent that Tom was reluctant to press the point. He worried that further contradiction of the trusted ecclesiastical remedies, which were meant to cure all that ails mankind, would create a rift between himself and the man that he loved. And if he revealed the source from which he’d obtained such forbidden knowledge, Philip might feel betrayed and cast him out.

Tom gasped in surprise when Philip placed a hand on the back of his neck, in full sight of both Joseph and the men-at-arms, drawing him closer. “I do not want either of their deaths on my hands, Tom. If you feel that you are capable of succeeding where Joseph has failed, then you have my complete support.” Something in Philip’s gaze told Tom that the prior was fully aware of whose influence had colored Tom’s objection to Joseph’s methods.

“ _Father prior,_ ” Joseph whined insistently. “I can do this. Just give me another chance.”

“I’d rather take my chances with the mason,” Man-at-arms number one said as he struggled to sit upright.

He was the same man who had stood guard outside the guesthouse yesterday, preventing Tom from leaving. But he hadn’t laid his hands on Tom or threatened him in any way. No, it had been the second mercenary who had knocked Tom down when Ellen had been apprehended. He would have kicked Tom in the face too if his partner hadn’t held him back. Tom would not hold a grudge against the scar-faced man for performing his duties, but he was still wary of what the coughing mercenary might do to him if he got too close.

“Tom?”

“Okay, I’ll try.” The thought of letting anyone die while he could prevent it didn’t sit well with Tom. In his eyes, doing nothing to stave off death was just as bad as killing a man in cold blood. He knew that Philip felt the same way due to his religious beliefs. Ignoring the affronted look that Joseph gave him, Tom pushed past him to examine the first mercenary. He took hold of the man’s wrist and felt for his pulse, noting that it was slower than what was normal for someone of his size and vigor. However, it was probably as a result of the bloodletting and related in no way to the man’s current condition. The man remained still while Tom pressed a hand to his clammy forehead, not moving a muscle when his eyes and mouth were checked. But it wasn’t Tom who he watched. The mercenary’s dark, hawklike eyes were on Philip the entire time, which was only natural considering the protective way the prior was hovering over Tom.

Once Tom was convinced of the mercenary’s main symptoms, he rushed over to the assortment of opaque jars at the back of the room. Picking one up, he squinted hard at the etched writing on its side, trying in vain to read the letters and pronounce what word it spelled out. He didn’t read often, but when he did it took him a long time to phonetically sound out the words, especially if they were new to him. Under pressure, he found the individual letters themselves impossible to recognize.

“What’s the matter?”

Tom whirled around at the sound of Philip’s low voice by his ear. “I can’t read any of these inscriptions,” Tom shamefully confessed as he picked up a second and third jar, only to set them back down hard when the letters began to all blur together.

“But you are not illiterate,” Philip stated firmly. “I have seen you reading some of our books with keen interest.”

“One sentence at a time. And only words that I know,” he added self-deprecatingly.

“I don’t believe that to be true. You just lack the confidence and practice.” Philip plucked the current jar from Tom’s fingers and traced the tip of his index finger along the bottom of the inscription while he slowly read it out loud. “Mugwort,” he read, watching Tom’s face for any signs of recognition.

“No. What is this one?” Tom held another jar up for Philip to read, following the prior’s careful enunciation of the word along with the letters that made up the spelling.

“Rosemary.”

“No. That’s not it.”

“Perhaps it would be simpler if you just told me what it is you are looking for.”

“Rose water. Coriander, sage, musk mallow... and catnip for the man over there.” Tom waited as Philip noisily knocked around the jars, separating the useful ones from the rest of the collection.

“Now what?”

Realizing that Philip was itching to be put to work, Tom sent him off to fetch some firewood with Joseph. They would need to warm both patients up before they froze to death in the frigid clutches of the priory. In the meantime, Tom busied himself with treating the first mercenary, doing his best to bring down the fever before it became dangerously high. For the most part, the man did his best to not appear intimidating so as not to frighten off his uneasy savior. But when Tom crouched down to the second mercenary and tried to get him to drink the medicinal concoction that he had prepared, the first mercenary startled him with a sudden shout. Tom barely got out of range in time to avoid the grasping hand that tried to crush him by the throat.

“You might want to avoid getting too close to him,” the scar-faced man advised. “He’s not as far gone as he looks.”

“Blasted heathen!” Fortunately Philip had reentered the room just in time to witness the second mercenary’s actions. Dropping his pile of firewood right where he stood, he stalked over to the coughing man’s bed, climbed over him, and slammed him back down by his shoulders. He held the man immobile while he kicked and fought, coaxing Tom closer again with a jerk of his head. “Pour whatever it is that you want to give him down his throat. He won’t trouble you again.” When the man nearly bucked him off, causing Tom to hesitate, Philip glared back at Joseph who was standing motionless in the doorway. “Don’t just stand there! Grab his legs and hold him down.”

It was only after Joseph had helped secure the battle-hardened ogre of a man that Tom felt safe enough to dose him against his will. He wouldn’t have approached him again otherwise, not after seeing the effort it took for Philip to keep the man pinned in place.

“Please tell me that you have sedated him as well,” Philip grunted as he used his entire body weight to prevent the mercenary from rising up again.

“I have, but it will take a few minutes to take effect.”

“You see what I’ve had to deal with this entire time?” Joseph moaned. “Nobody appreciates nothing around here.”

Before either Tom or Philip could comment on Joseph’s cry for sympathy, three monks barged into the room dragging a fourth. The fourth monk was significantly larger than the other three and far too heavy to lift. Two of them had him by the arms while the third was hugging him around the waist and tugging backwards, desperately trying not to let the incapacitated man fall on his face.

“Brother Johnny!” Philip exclaimed in dismay, abandoning the mercenary to rush to his friend’s aid. “What happened to him?”

“We found him collapsed in the latrine. He’s disoriented and in a lot of pain.”

Tom took in Johnny’s most obvious symptoms with a quick, superficial examination of him. The large monk’s eyes were wide open and his pupils dilated, the pain evident in his tightened features. His skin was devoid of all color, but there was an odd rash on his lips and swelling around his face. He was also sweating and panting. The bulk of the medical knowledge Ellen had passed on to Tom had to do with common sicknesses like the cold, nausea, and stomachaches. But her infatuation with poisonings had seen to it that Tom was continually coached on the telltale signs of a corrupted human body, along with the possible ways of ridding the victim of foreign elements. One look at Johnny’s deteriorating complexion verified what Philip had earlier suspected. Waleran had poisoned something in the refectory and poor Johnny had ingested what had probably been meant for Tom himself.

“How long ago did he finish breakfast?” Tom asked as all three monks, with the help of Philip, hoisted Johnny onto the bed that Tom had vacated not more than fifteen minutes ago.

“He never made it to breakfast,” Brother Simon, one of the older monks, answered over Johnny’s groans of agony.

“How can that be?” Tom questioned as he quickly took Johnny’s pulse, only to discover that it was even weaker than the scar-faced mercenary’s. “He must’ve eaten or drunk something.”

“He couldn’t have,” Simon said with a shake of his head. “He wasn’t at breakfast, which is why we went looking for him. He said he was in the latrine all morning with an upset stomach. That was before he started to lose consciousness.”

A sharp stabbing sensation clutched at Tom’s heart, and for a moment he stopped breathing entirely. If Johnny hadn’t been poisoned in the refectory then there was only one other plausible location he could have fallen victim to Waleran’s wickedness. Suddenly Tom knew exactly what it was Johnny had ingested and where. “Philip, he’s been poisoned,” he blurted out, not caring that he was once again speaking to the prior as a lover and not a follower of the church. “He needs to be purged. Immediately! Induce vomiting and then give him wormwood, mint, and balm.” By the time Philip looked over at him with wide, shocked eyes, Tom was already halfway out the door.

“Tom! Where are you going?” Philip looked shaken by what appeared to be Tom’s irrational behavior. “You are needed here.”

“The dose of poisoning is not lethal for a man of his size,” Tom explained breathlessly as he paused to set Philip’s mind at ease. “But it will be enough to kill a child.” Knowing that Philip would figure out the rest, Tom took off running through the dormitory. Johnny had indeed drunk something earlier on in the morning. Given Johnny’s loving parental instincts, he would have done what any father does before feeding his child. After having milked the goat, Johnny would have set the warm jug aside while he led the goat back into its pen. Then, before sending the milk off to be delivered to Jonathan, Johnny would have tasted it to ensure that it was not too strong or sour. But he hadn’t suspected that the milk might have been tampered with during the short time that he had left it unattended. The poison that Waleran had chosen was probably tasteless and odorless, and it had been meant for Tom or Jonathan, or the both of them. Had Tom drunk the milk instead, his body would have metabolized the poison faster for he was in better physical shape than Johnny. And his slighter frame would have given the poison less of an area to spread through, making it more potent, which would have resulted in permanent organ damage at the very least. But Jonathan... even the smallest amount would result in certain death for a baby so tiny and fragile.

When Tom had seen Jonathan last, his little baby boy was still fast asleep in Jack’s arms. Not knowing how long he would be trapped in the infirmary, Tom had given permission for Jack to enter the prior’s quarters in order to feed Jonathan in his absence. Had Jack dawdled around chatting with Martha or giving Cuthbert a hard time? Or had he taken off for Philip’s private rooms as soon as possible in the hopes of snooping around, as young boys were so fond of doing? Tom prayed that Jack would dutifully do as he was told, finishing off the rest of yesterday’s milk before he so much as glanced at the liquid death that Johnny had unsuspectingly provided them with this morning.


	11. Chapter 11

What was so special about the prior’s quarters? Aside from the bed that was too luxurious for a poor man to sleep on, but not pompous enough to satisfy an aristocrat or royalty, there was not much that made Prior Philip’s separate living area worth rummaging through. Not that Jack hadn’t gone ahead and done so anyway. He had been dying of curiosity ever since he’d caught wind of the odd attraction that Tom shared with the monk. What sort of creature was Philip to have turned an honest man off of a woman as ravishing as Jack’s mother Ellen? And what did Philip have to offer Tom that Ellen couldn’t? Those were questions that Jack was dying to dig up the answers to. So far his search of the prior’s private sanctum had stubbornly refused to reveal the answers that he sought.

Upon entering the fairly large room, Jack had turned his attention to the desk that stood opposite the doorway, to the left, placed in a tight corner. He had been careful not to jostle the baby as he went through the loosely bound scrolls of parchment on the desktop. Unbinding them hadn’t been too much of a hassle, but rolling them back up again took longer because they were quite stiff. Jack knew nothing about laws and church functions so he had only skimmed the writing before putting them back again. There was nothing interesting inside the desk except for some ink and a spare quill. Jack had hoped to find some loose coins inside but he’d had no such luck.

The dining table was a small, cozy piece of furniture, perfect for two people to sit down to eat at and no more. Due to the fact that every inch of available space was taken up by Tom’s architectural drawings, Jack doubted that either the monk or the master mason were using it for its original purpose.

Jack picked up the delicate angel lounging in the center of the table. He never would have thought that Philip took any interest in the arts. Philip seemed to have no clue when it came to appreciating the art of human expression. The unimaginative prior had looked like his brain was about to explode when he came across Jack’s gargoyle sculptures. Jack had watched Philip from a distance as the monk moved from one masterpiece to the next, his expression clouding over with bafflement and dismay. Jack supposed that any other artist would have taken insult at Philip’s reaction, but Jack had relished the moment, knowing that his creations had the power to unnerve the almighty prior.

Turning the angel upside down, Jack was startled to find a neatly engraved ‘T’ on the bottom of the sculpture. There was no mistaking Tom’s signature letter. Jack had seen Tom carve that exact same T into a multitude of stone blocks down at the construction site. Although Jack had known that Tom was gifted when it came to his masonry skills and architectural know-how, he hadn’t thought the mason capable of creating something so romantic and beautiful. And to think that Tom had gone to such lengths to impress Philip of all people. Feeling embarrassed and a little guilty for discovering a side of Tom that he hadn’t known existed, Jack quickly replaced the angel and crept over to the bed. Now this was something that he could get some use out of.

Carefully placing the sleeping baby inside the basket of blankets on the chair beside the bed, which had probably been left there for that purpose, Jack dove onto the soft, fluffy looking mattress, imagining that falling onto it would feel like sailing through a deck of clouds. As he landed on the mattress, the soft down feathers that it was stuffed with cushioned his fall. He flipped onto his back and sank deeper into the mattress, sighing contentedly.

How lucky Tom was to have fallen in with a man of Philip’s rank and power. One day Philip could ascend to the position of bishop and take Tom to live with him inside one of those lavishly rich palaces that Ellen was always cursing. Ellen despised the church and accused its members of some pretty heinous acts, but Jack thought that it wasn’t so bad if looked at from the inside out. Thanks to Tom, Jack now had a roof over his head, a constant supply of hot food in his belly, and the opportunity to study masonry under a gifted master. But, above all else, he had a man he could love and respect, and look up to as a father.

_I knew I did right by starting that fire_ , Jack thought to himself. Although he occasionally felt guilty for having climbed into the rafters of the old cathedral to basically torch the place, he now solidly believed that a higher power had approved of his sacrificial bonfire. As he had lain in bed that fateful night, listening to Tom sorrowfully berating himself for his own worthlessness because he hadn’t been able to find work, a sort of desperate anger had overcome Jack. How could a man as kind and as _good_ as Tom continue to be rejected no matter where he went? It just wasn’t fair. Jack had then come to the conclusion that if there were to be no divine intervention on Tom’s behalf, then Jack himself would just have to do something to nudge his foster father in the right direction. But the fire had done more than nudge Tom, it had upended his entire life, like a massive ship capsizing at sea. And Ellen had been a casualty of that shipwreck, being left behind on a small island of her own as Tom was saved from the dangerous stormy waves of the sea by none other than Prior Philip. Any idiot could see that those two were madly in love with each other, but what no one knew was that Jack was owed all the credit. Had Jack not rewritten Tom’s fate no romance may have developed between the mason and the prior. And the whole lot of them might have spent many more months on the road before Tom collapsed of exhaustion or died of a broken heart.

“Jack!”

Jack shot off the bed like a hot coal had been dropped down his pants. He opened his mouth to make an excuse about accidentally slipping and falling onto the bed, but ended up falling silent when he noticed the state Tom was in. The mason had rushed into the room in a panic but halted by the dining table with his focus on Jonathan. He gripped the table, leaning heavily onto it, his breathing harsh and uneven.

“Tom, what is it?” Jack rushed to Tom’s side and made an abortive gesture to take his arm. He really wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do because he didn’t know what the problem was. Tom looked absolutely wrecked, operating on willpower alone, because exhaustion seemed to have drained him considerably some time ago.

“Did you feed... Jonathan?” Tom gasped, making an effort to push away from the table, but stopping when the movement appeared to tax him further.

“N—not yet... I was going to,” Jack stammered, feeling like Tom’s faith in him had been misplaced. “He was sleeping...” However, Tom’s reaction was the complete opposite of what Jack had been expecting. A look of pure relief swept over Tom’s features, relaxing them a fraction.

“Thank God!”

Why was Tom praising the lord? This was probably the only experience Jack had in his entire life of being thanked for not doing as he had been asked. And what made it even more confusing was the appearance of a red faced prior who burst into the room in much the same way as Tom had. But Philip rushed past Tom, grabbed the jug of fresh milk that was sitting on the dining table, and did something really bizarre with it. He took it to the doorway, spilled a good puddle of it outside the entrance, and then produced a plump rat from inside one of the deep pockets of his robe. What in the world was Philip up to? That was perfectly good milk that he was wasting.

Holding the rat by its tail, Philip dropped it into the puddle of milk. Almost immediately, the overstuffed rat began to gorge itself on the free breakfast, acting as if this was what it usually did in the morning. Jack could believe it. He had spotted more than one rat darting inside the kitchen when it thought no one was the wiser. There was probably a whole army of rats raiding the kitchen when it was left unattended between the end of supper and the start of breakfast.

“What are you doing?” Jack asked, his curiosity piqued. It was quite amusing to watch the prior playing with a grimy rat. But his amusement faded and then abruptly turned to horror when that rat began to convulse and make awful squealing noises. Philip released its tail and, instead of escaping, the rat went rigid and spontaneously died inside that drying puddle of milk.

“The milk has been poisoned,” Philip explained in a tone that was thunderous and unforgiving. “Tom, please tell me that the baby has not been fed this vile potion!” And then, as if seeing Tom for the first time, Philip’s face fell. “Dear God, this is more than I can bear.” He pulled Tom away from the table and into his arms, frantically attempting to calm him. “Jack?!”

Finally realizing what was going on, Jack forced his brain to connect with his mouth so that he could prevent the situation from escalating any further. “Jonathan hasn’t touched the tainted milk,” Jack answered Philip’s question when it became obvious that Tom couldn’t. “Tom... he came in here out of breath.” No, that was not how his mother had described it. Ellen always used the word _wheezing_ whenever Tom had a difficult time breathing at night. But that was while he was sleeping. Jack had never heard Tom struggling to breathe during the day, and it had never been this bad. “The wheezing usually affects him at night. This is the first time I’ve heard him like this during the day.”

“You’ve heard him like this before?” Philip asked in barely contained surprise.

“Yes, but never during the day,” Jack repeated.

“Listen to me very carefully, Jack,” Philip said in that commanding voice of his as he stroked Tom’s face in the vain attempt to comfort him. “Brother Johnny has been poisoned by the same milk that I believe was intended for Jonathan. Tom did what he could for Johnny, as well as the bishop’s men-at-arms, but I fear that he has overextended himself. Our physician is that in only title alone. We have a desperate need for a qualified physician... I believe your mother more than fits the bill.”

“Why would anyone want to poison Tom’s baby?” Jack blurted out, momentarily forgetting that nobody was supposed to know that Jonathan belonged to Tom.

For a second Philip looked confused and upset. “How is it that _you_ know about Jonathan’s parentage?”

“Me?” Jack repeated, not knowing why Philip had a problem with him knowing. “I was the one who found Jonathan after he was taken from Tom.”

“I suppose so long as Alfred doesn’t know, no harm has been done,” Philip muttered under his breath.

So Alfred was Philip’s main concern. Could it be possible that the prior saw the same threat in that bully as Jack did?

“Waleran has fled Kingsbridge and taken his guilty conscience with him,” Philip informed Jack. “There is still a horse remaining that belongs to one of the men-at-arms. I want you to take it and ride to Ellen with due haste. I sent her off with the other horse so the two of you should be able to ride back here while it is still light outside.”

Shocked at what Philip had just implied about Waleran being the poisoner, it took Jack a moment to consider what he had been asked to do. Philip was trusting him to ride off with a steed that was worth a considerable sum of silver, as well as convince Ellen to return. After the way Ellen had been mistreated, Jack had serious doubts about luring his mother back to the one place she dreaded the most. “What about the arrest warrant?”

“While she stays within these walls, she will be granted my full protection. I won’t allow any harm to befall her. I swear this on my life, Jack.”

Knowing that the prior was an honorable man, if not a bit of an irritating preacher, Jack prepared to immediately depart. But he stopped dead in his tracks when Tom suddenly fainted into Philip’s arms, throwing the prior off balance as he was forced to brace himself to support the mason’s entire weight. Jack felt terribly worried about Tom, especially when he realized that the wheezing had grown a lot weaker in the mason’s unconscious state. And Philip... the prior looked as if he were on the verge of breaking down into tears.

“You need to go,” Jack said as he took charge of the situation. “I will give you directions to find my mother. Take Tom to her. She will know what to do.”

For once, Philip accepted Jack’s instructions, doing as he was told instead of telling others what to do. He gently lowered Tom to the ground but continued to hold him in a possessive embrace, not willing to let him go. “Bring the horse around and help me get Tom into the saddle. Afterwards, I want you to go to Brother Cuthbert and explain everything that has transpired here. He will find an alternative milk supply for Jonathan and keep an eye on things around here until I return. And, above all else, do not trust Remigius. He is complicit in this poisoning. I am certain of it.”

***

Horseback riding was something that Philip had been doing from a very young age, from the moment he had been old enough to grip the reins by himself. Or perhaps even earlier than that. His father had introduced him to his first horse while he had yet to master the artful skill of walking on his own two legs. Philip recalled that his father’s horse had been a fantastic black and brown beast that had the bad habit of nipping the fingers of the hand that fed it. It had towered over Philip like a gigantic heaving mass, pawing at the ground with its hooves, and swishing its tail in annoyance to keep away the flies. From the ground, that horse had looked like some otherworldly terror. But once in the saddle, Philip had begun to appreciate the miraculous way that a horse could change ones perspective on life.

Usually Philip felt liberated and weightless when he chewed up the terrain on a healthy young horse, but today he felt nothing but fear and tension. Although he did his best to keep the horse’s gait steady and balanced, he nonetheless found himself hissing through his teeth every time the creature tipped a bit to one side or the other as its hooves crashed through the slippery underbrush of the forest. He kept having to slow the horse down, but it instinctively sped up again because Philip was leaning too far forward in the saddle. There was nothing he could do about it. If he didn’t lean forward, thereby pinning Tom to the saddle, he worried that Tom might be tossed to the ground.

Despite the air being freezing cold, Philip’s body felt as overheated as the horse’s - hot, sweaty, and uncomfortable. He could see his breath as white puffs of smoke, and some of the puddles left over by the rain had frozen over. The path was treacherous spotted with all those hidden patches of ice, but Philip persevered knowing that Tom would soon get the help he so desperately required.

“Hold on, my love. It shouldn’t be long now...” Philip gripped the horn of the saddle harder, his arms locked around Tom’s chest, and tugged on the reins to steer the horse to the left. They had now passed the tiny winding stream that Jack had mentioned in his directions. There should now be only a gnarled tree and a thatch of berry bushes that had been picked clean to keep an eye out for.

It was mid afternoon and Philip had been in the saddle for nearly three hours. His arms and back hurt from his cramped position but he had no time to feel sorry for himself. His thoughts were splintered in so many different directions. Nothing burdened his mind and emotions more than the thought of losing Tom. Why would God have given him such a precious gift only to tear it away from him again so abruptly? Was he being tested? Had he done something to displease his creator? And if so, what could he possibly do to appease Him? Somewhere mixed in with those thoughts were distant memories from his childhood - atrocious nightmares of a loss so great that he had forbidden himself from accessing them. But now he found himself faced with the imagery of his parents bludgeoned before him, their spirits lanced from their bodies by blood stained swords and the savage men who held them. Even buried deep within his mind, such a traumatic experience had never left him. It fuelled every waking moment, every action that he supposedly made out of independent thought.

“You will _not_ leave me,” Philip said defiantly by Tom’s ear. He had sworn to take care of Tom and that was exactly what he was going to do. He loved this man more than life itself and he was willing to do whatever was necessary to protect and keep him safe. And that meant that one way or the other Waleran would need to be dealt with. Waleran was to blame for Tom’s collapse and Johnny’s poisoning. Had Waleran not threatened Tom, and then traumatized him with that perverse scene back in the crypt, Tom would not be like this. But had Waleran truly been the trigger that had pushed Tom too far? _Am I to blame for forcing him to tend to those men in his condition?_ The thought that being pressured into treating the men in the infirmary may have been too much for Tom wounded Philip’s heart.

“COME NO FURTHER!”

Philip barely had enough warning to duck further into the saddle to avoid losing an ear to the rock that went sailing past his head. “HOLD YOUR FIRE!” He shouted back, not wanting to risk raising his head to see where Ellen was and what she was armed with.

“Philip?”

Not bothering to demand that Ellen call him prior, Philip hastily called back to her. “I have brought Tom. He is seriously unwell and requires immediate attention.”

“Are you mad?!” Ellen shrieked when she got close enough to hear Tom’s laboured breathing, and see that he was unconscious in the saddle. “That horse was built for one rider, not two. How long has he been like this?”

Ellen hadn’t had any reason to be expecting visitors so soon after her escape, so her long brown hair was an absolute mess, and it looked like she had just piled on random articles of clothing that gave her a deranged sense of fashion. But there was nothing tired looking or sloppy about her. Her pale golden eyes keenly inspected Tom as she approached, taking in his appearance and ignoring Philip.

“The wheezing started around four hours ago. He collapsed sometime after that.”

“Four hours?!” All the color immediately drained from Ellen’s tanned face. “Get him down from there. He won’t last much longer.”

Passing Ellen the reins so that she could hold the horse steady, Philip quickly hopped down off the horse. He then carefully pulled Tom out of the saddle and lowered him gently to the ground. The effort left him with a sore neck and he pulled a muscle in his back, but he would gladly take any amount of pain if it meant Tom would be spared anymore suffering. “Where should I take him?”

Ellen tethered the horse to a nearby tree and jerked her head in the direction of a cave that was partially hidden by a spreading mass of overgrown foliage. “Bring him inside. Quickly!”

Philip hoisted Tom into his arms and swallowed back a groan of pain when his back nearly gave out on him. He carried his beloved into that small, dark cave, following closely behind Ellen so that he wouldn’t get lost. He needn’t have bothered for the cave was tiny inside. It was nothing more than a hollowed out living space of carved rock, dirt, and straw.

“Lay him down on the bed.” Ellen indicated the pile of straw that was covered with a bunch of loose fabric, with a rolled up garment serving as a pillow. While Philip tried to make Tom comfortable, Ellen filled a pot with water and put it over the fire. Then she removed a jar from one of the rocky shelves. “I prepared this recently... just in case he were to need it, but I didn’t anticipate him worsening this quickly.” She poured some floral smelling liquid into the pot, reserving the rest for later.

“That smells potent. What is it?” Philip asked, watching Ellen soak a cloth in whatever liquid the jar contained.

“Lavender oil.” Ellen replaced the jar on the shelf and knelt down by Tom’s side. When she placed the cloth over Tom’s mouth and nose, Philip nearly objected. This was not how a monk physician would have treated his patient. “You have something to say, _monk_?” Ellen challenged him, having seen his reaction.

“His breathing is labored...,” Philip began to protest.

“Obviously.”

“And yet you obstruct his mouth and nose with that cloying material.”

“If I don’t do something to ease the inflammation, he will stop breathing altogether,” she retorted bluntly. “What caused his symptoms to deteriorate so rapidly? He wasn’t this bad when I left.” Now she was looking at Philip accusingly. Did she suspect what had developed between her former paramour and the prior whom she could barely stand?

“After you left, Waleran attempted to flog him.”

“Oh, you _wicked_ fanatics,” Ellen cursed, instantly becoming quite animated and hysterical. “And where were you while Tom was being threatened by that barbaric _pig_ of a man?”

“I intervened before Waleran could touch him,” Philip said in a raised voice. “Don’t think me some callous weakling, woman,” he warned. “It was because I was tending to you that Waleran was given the opportunity to get Tom alone. But even then, Tom was able to overcome the event and rest easily for the night.”

“Where? In your bed?”

The accusation was so sudden and unexpected that Philip didn’t know whether to feel shocked or angry by it. He looked down to where he was holding Tom’s left hand reassuringly, and then back up at Ellen. She had retreated to the fire, putting some distance between them, and was glaring at their joined hands.

“Don’t overthink it,” Ellen said haughtily. “I am not so petty that I would watch someone I care for suffer just because he found comfort in the arms of another.”

Still Philip said nothing. He was not accustomed to being manipulated by a woman, nor was he comfortable with the way Ellen was talking down to him. Even though he realized this was her natural way of interacting with people, he couldn’t resist the urge to defy her. He was a man of God - the prior of Kingsbridge. She owed him some respect. At the very least, she ought to be grateful that he had seen to it that her life was spared.

“This is my home,” Ellen reminded Philip when he continued to stubbornly shun her. “You will swallow your manly pride and answer my questions, or you can get out and leave Tom to me.”

Philip would not allow himself to be removed from Tom’s side, not even if Ellen were to put a blade to his throat. “He slept with me last night,” he said bluntly, bracing himself to be verbally picked apart by Ellen’s wrath.

Aside from the frown lines that became visible on Ellen’s attractive face, she showed no reaction to Philip’s confession. “And was he breathing normally last night?”

“No. His breathing was distressed after I returned from matins. He said that he had forgotten to drink the medicine you had given him. He claimed that it was to soothe a dry throat...?”

“It is for that, yes. But its main purpose is to prevent inflammation.”

“Inflammation of what?”

“The airways. Tom suffers from asthma. It is a condition that causes wheezing, coughing, chest tightness, and difficulty breathing.”

“Asthma?” Philip repeated. He had never heard of such a thing. “And this is the cure?” He motioned at the damp cloth covering Tom’s mouth and nose.

But Ellen just shook her head bitterly. “There is no cure. Only prevention and easing of the symptoms.”

“But what causes it?”

“In Tom’s case, the inhalation of stone dust is most likely the culprit. Although overexertion and stress have also become factors now that the asthma has become this severe.”

_Stone dust?_ But every inch of the priory was blanketed with those fine particles. Tom was exposed to stone dust every day that he worked on the cathedral. And the crypt was covered in thick layers of the stuff. Tom should never have been down there! And Philip should never have forced him to play the part of physician when the mason himself had been in need of medical care. “He must cease work on the cathedral at once,” Philip said without thinking. What was there to think about? He would not endanger Tom’s health or his life by permitting him to do any further work on the cathedral. It would be selfish and cruel to let Tom do so just so Philip could fulfill his own ambitions. “Why did he not confide in me? To take such a risk... all for the sake of impressing me...”

“He doesn’t know,” Ellen replied, her tone a little less harsh this time. “Do not think that he is building that cathedral mainly for you. It is his lifelong dream - his passion. I could no more take that away from him than I could hope to replace his dead wife.”

“Surely you must tell him,” Philip said uneasily. “To not do so...”

“Well, now there is no choice. He must be told. I had hoped to keep his symptoms under control, but it would seem that the environment he has chosen to live in has made that impossible.” Ellen stared hard at Philip with those insightful eyes of hers. “But it isn’t my place to have such discussions with him anymore. It is yours. You will tell him.” She smiled thinly at him. “You will see what happens when you suggest that he give up his life’s work. I don’t envy your position, monk.”


	12. Chapter 12

As soon as the water appeared warm enough, Ellen pulled the pot from the fire by sliding a sturdy branch through the open handle to prevent burns. She had needed to heat the water quickly, which is why she pushed it directly into the coals instead of suspending it over the fire as she usually did. After checking to see that the water temperature was relatively equal to that of baby’s milk, she set the pot near Tom so that he would benefit from the aroma of the diffused oil. She also removed the cloth from his face upon noticing that his chest was rising and falling more naturally. The wheezing had also become less pronounced, although Tom had yet to regain consciousness.

The entire time Ellen was monitoring Tom’s vital signs, taking his pulse and listening to his weak breathing, that monk was never far off. Only twice did Philip release Tom’s hand, but he did not do it to spare Ellen’s feelings. The first time Philip let go of Tom, it was to help remove the heavy cloak from the mason so that he might be able to rest easier covered in blankets instead. The second time, Philip had needed both hands free so that he could offer a brief prayer to the Lord almighty. Why Philip was bothering to pray to his supposed maker when Ellen was the one doing all the work was quite the mystery. At least for Ellen. To her it was a bunch of nonsense. A waste of time and energy.

When Philip hunched over Tom further in the attempt to quiet the growling of his empty stomach, Ellen rolled her eyes at him. Not only had the monk taken possession of _her man_ , but now he was going to be scrounging off of Ellen’s food supply as well. If only she could let him starve... Monks were known for their ability to fast, to resist the temptation of food for days upon end in order to attain clarity and enlightenment. How long would Philip last without sustenance?

Unfortunately, Ellen had no real reason to hate Philip aside from the fact that he affiliated himself with the religious group that caused her so much grief and suffering. And, as opposed to inviting her wrath, Philip’s dedicated care of Tom only made it that much more difficult to wish harm would befall him.

Muttering to herself about freeloaders and the evil men of God, Ellen lifted the lid off the cauldron and began to dump the last of her food rations into it. Rabbit that she had snared, skinned, and chopped, followed by vegetables that she had stolen from the priory kitchen - turnips, potatoes, and carrots - and a generous sprinkling of salt. Then, thinking that it might not be enough for three people, she added the chestnuts she had gathered as well. Once everything was sufficiently covered with water, she bent over to grab the cauldron with both hands.

“Here, allow me.”

Ellen swore to the high heavens when Philip brushed her aside so that he could lift the cauldron up, suspending it over the fire on the rusted metal hook that hung there for that purpose. Damn Philip and his chivalry! Ellen had no use for such delicate treatment. In fact, she abhorred it. She was more than capable of performing any act that her male counterpart thought only himself capable of. She could probably outperform any man because her volition could not be weakened by lust, nor could her confidence be crippled by a dysfunctional male apparatus.

Ellen might have put Philip in his place then and there, if her rational mind hadn’t decided to take charge. Philip was not the chivalrous sort, of that Ellen was certain. The monk had little interaction with women and therefore knew not what to do with them, or how to behave around them. So he treated them equally, on the same level as he did the men. He would have helped Ellen whether she were a man or a woman. It mattered not to him.

“Who is looking after the child in your absence?” Ellen asked roughly, her anger towards Philip subsiding.

“Jack is. He is a kindhearted youth... although a tad peculiar.”

“Hah!” Ellen laughed abruptly, startling Philip. “Well put, monk.” Jack was indeed a peculiar young man. From the moment he had started to display his somewhat warped artistic talent, he had been impossible to contain. One day Ellen had returned from an early morning hunt to find a large section of the cave wall vandalized. When questioned, Jack had claimed that the moon-faced monster Ellen accused him of carving was nothing more than a harmless wood sprite. Thinking that the books she read him were to blame, Ellen had switched to more challenging, worldly material... only to discover that it mattered not what he heard, or what he saw. He was literally obsessed with filling every available space of their living environment with crooked faces, hypnotic eyes, and gaping mouths. Tom was supposed to have been the answer to all of Ellen’s parenting problems. Not only was the mason an exquisite specimen of the male species, but he was also highly skilled and a stable role model. However, much to Ellen’s disappointment, Jack had only honed his abnormal gift under Tom’s guidance, not corrected it.

“When will he awaken?” Philip asked anxiously. The prior was now stroking his thumb over Tom’s eyebrow, perhaps hoping that the sensation would coax the mason out of his feeble state. Or maybe he was a particularly tactile lover, even in the presence of a third party.

“When he is ready.” Watching the prior fawning over Tom filled Ellen’s mind with speculation, as well as explicit images. On the one hand, the thought of that monk with his hands all over Tom caused her to feel jealous and vindictive. However, the part of her that relished all aspects of human sexuality found herself unusually receptive to the idea of being a silent spectator in whatever those two got up to together. What amused her even more was the thought of casting her perverse fantasies at Philip’s doorstep during a lengthy and insincere confession. “You still have not shared with me the events that led to his current condition. If you prevented Waleran from flogging him, then what brought about his disastrous decline?”

For a long, drawn-out moment, Philip stared off into space and said nothing. And when he finally did muster up the energy to speak, it was in a guarded tone. “He saw something he shouldn’t have. Something that... frightened him.” Before Ellen could interrogate him further on what it was that Tom had seen, the prior continued. “He was also exposed to an environment thick with that stone dust, which you say is the major cause of his illness. Not realizing how fragile a state he was in, I had him take over the infirmary upon learning that the physician installed there was nothing but a fraud. Both of Waleran’s men fell ill after the storm... and Brother Johnny was poisoned... I was desperate.” Philip was now caressing Tom’s face in a regretful, apologetic gesture. “This is all my fault.”

Ellen would have loved to kick Philip into the hole of mournful self-recrimination that he was digging for himself, but she held back. To do so would hurt Tom, and she would never purposefully do that. A broken, pitiful prior would be of no use to Tom. Besides, as much as Ellen wished that she could blame Philip for what had befallen the mason, she knew that none of it was his fault. “You can protect him all you want, but you cannot spare him from human emotions,” she said sensibly as she stirred the rabbit stew with a big wooden spoon. “You were not responsible for whatever it was that he saw, nor could you control his reaction to it. And, as for enlisting his help in the infirmary, was it not Tom himself who offered his assistance to begin with? I doubt that Tom would have stood idly by while others were suffering, not if he knew he could make a difference.” When it didn’t look like she was getting through to the moping prior, Ellen gave him a shrewd smile. “If anyone is to blame for this, it is me. I was the one who instructed him in the medicinal arts. Had I not put such ideas into his head...”

“You were not even there,” Philip protested. He gave Ellen a look that said it was absolutely absurd for her to shoulder any of the blame.

Having elicited the desired reaction out of the prior, Ellen merely shrugged noncommittally. “Then perhaps nobody is to blame.” Not giving Philip a chance to contradict her, she launched into the brutal interrogation that she had intended for Tom, altering some of the questions so that she could direct them at the monk instead. “So, tell me, how were you able to bewitch him?”

“I beg your pardon?!” Philip was now harshly scrutinizing Ellen, not sure if she meant the question offensively or as a joke.

“From the first day we arrived in your priory, he was gazing at you as if he were under a spell.”

“I hope that you are not implying that witchcraft was responsible for bringing us together.”

“If not that, then what?”

Becoming visibly upset by that question, Philip turned away from Tom so that he could give Ellen his full attention. “Surely that does not concern you, woman.”

“That is where you are wrong. It was I who found him on the brink of death, keeled over at the foot of his newly buried wife’s grave. And it was I who nursed him back to health, caring for him when he refused to do so himself. He may no longer share my bed, but that does not mean that I care for him any less, especially considering the tight bond he has formed with my son. So let me warn you now, if he is nothing but a passing fancy for you - one of your many male conquests... If you break his heart, I will take it upon myself to torture you like your imagined devil never could, and then I will scatter your remains in so many places that not even God herself will be able to restore you.”

Not a sound left Philip’s lips as he sat there in stupefied awe of Ellen’s imaginative threat. He didn’t appear to be overly intimidated by her, but Ellen could easily correct that by inserting more elaborate details into her plans for him should he anger her. In the end, Philip exhaled loudly in an attempt to disguise the nervous laughter that he was losing control over. “I am glad that Tom has found a formidable ally in you, Ellen,” he finally said, politely referring to her by name. “And I thank you for taking such good care of him.”

“Your word,” Ellen demanded. She was not a woman who could be swayed so easily by unsolicited flattery.

“I swear to you on my life that I will not discard him or treat him poorly. I am sorry to have come between you, but I love him, Ellen - with all my heart.”

Although that was exactly what Ellen had hoped to hear, the emotional admission itself caused her a great deal of embarrassment. She preferred Philip to keep acting the part of prior and spare her the emotional dramatics.

“And, as for my many male conquests,” Philip continued, “I wonder if you might be so kind as to stop confusing me with whatever manner of being has embittered you so. There is not, nor will there ever be from this day forth, anyone other than Tom.”

Thankfully, it was at that moment that Tom decided to rejoin them. From behind Philip, Ellen noticed the fluttering movement of Tom’s eyelids as he struggled to open them.

“Tom!” Ellen took the three long strides necessary to reach Tom’s side, but that monk reacted even faster. Before she could get in between them, Philip was leaning over Tom, with both of those large hands of his clasped warmly to the mason’s face. Her stomach fluttered with nervous anxiety as she imagined the prior welcoming his lover back with an open-mouthed kiss. _So help me, I will stab out both his eyes if he dares do that in front of me._ But her fears turned out to be unwarranted because Philip merely sat there caressing Tom’s face and smiling down at him in a sickeningly sweet way. To think that a member of the church was capable of such tenderness... Philip seemed to be going out of his way to contradict every stereotype that Ellen had ever formed of monks and priests.

“Tom, my love, thank heavens you’ve returned to me.” When Tom gazed up at Philip in confusion and wonder, Philip bent down to press a chaste kiss to his forehead. He probably figured that such a mild gesture would do nothing to incite Ellen.

_Foolish man_. When it came to the complexities of jealousy, any gesture - whether it be tame or lascivious - had the potential of resulting in insults and bloodshed. “Tom, how are you feeling?” Ellen asked as she shouldered her way next to Philip.

“Ellen?” Tom’s voice was but a paper thin whisper and, as he spoke, he coughed and that awful wheezing started again, although thankfully a lot less severe than before.

“Perhaps it is best that you do not speak for now.” Ellen thrust a cup of herbal tea that she had mixed together into Philip’s face. “Have him drink this - slowly.”

Not surprisingly, Tom’s expression changed to one of concern and frustration when it became evident that he would not be able to ask any of the questions that he was no doubt dying to. In the past, Ellen would have reassured the mason with a concise explanation, backed up with her physical presence. Now he would just have to settle for whatever Philip was capable of offering in the form of comfort and peace of mind.

“I’ve brought you to Ellen’s home,” Philip informed Tom in a tactful manner. To a monk, a cave in the forest would undoubtedly fail as a habitable dwelling. “You fainted back at the priory and needed to be treated for... a particular illness. This was the only safe place I could think of bringing you.”

Ellen felt strangely touched by Philip’s heartfelt words. There had to have been countless other places Philip could have taken Tom. Like to the house of a nearby physician or to the little monastery not far from where Ellen lived. But Philip had deemed Ellen to be the most suitable and trustworthy person to deal with Tom’s condition. If Philip truly did love Tom as he had so professed, then entrusting her with the task of healing the mason had profound implications for how much he valued her.Then again, he had risked his position at the priory by letting her escape, had he not? 

“Come, drink this.” Philip slid an arm under Tom’s shoulders and helped lift him to a sitting position. He then held the mason close while ensuring that none of Ellen’s precious herbs went to waste. “After an hour or two, we will head back to the priory. Hopefully you will be feeling better by then.”

“I’m afraid that the illusory magic of your god and my practical medicine are ill matched,” Ellen said with a harshness that startled the both of them. “No, he is not going to miraculously recover within the hour. Not even within two. If you move him before he has recovered, he will have another attack. And there won’t be much I can do about it out in the forest. He needs to rest, at least until tomorrow. But even then, I cannot say for sure if allowing him to travel, especially on horseback, will be possible in his weakened state.” Perhaps if Tom had been given more time to regain his vitality after spending two seasons on the verge of starvation, he might not have required such extra care. It was also difficult for Ellen to judge how much of the mason’s symptoms were being caused by a lack of strength, and how much were due to his fragile emotional state. Had Philip not taken an interest in Tom, the mason might have easily succumbed to his illness.

“Leaving him here alone is out of the question,” Philip said in that booming voice of his, anger evident just below the surface.

“He would not be alone.”

A strange look clouded Philip’s face as he placed the empty cup down onto the small table by the bed, and then wrapped both arms protectively around Tom. “Forgive me, Ellen, it was remiss of me to not state my dual purpose in coming here. Brother Johnny is in a terrible state after that poisoning and needs further medical attention. I wouldn’t ask it of you if I couldn’t guarantee your safety. Waleran has gone and Brother Cuthbert has Remigius under watch...”

“Let me get this straight, Philip,” Ellen began, using the prior’s name for the first time because it didn’t seem courteous for her to keep treating him like refuse when he was being so kind to Tom. “That pig Waleran just conveniently up and left at the same time as your favorite pupil was poisoned?”

“If you are implying that Waleran is behind it, you are correct. He laced the goat’s milk with something lethal that was intended for Jonathan, and perhaps Tom as well. Then he fled before he could be held accountable for his actions, leaving both of his men-at-arms and that snake Remigius behind.”

“That lowlife piece of shit attempted to kill Tom and the baby?!” Oh how Ellen wished that Waleran had not left the priory. She would have loved to stick her cutting knife into his chest, rake it down his body, and empty his innards like a flailing fish. “What do you intend to do about it?”

“I haven’t decided... yet.”

Ellen watched Philip embracing Tom, seemingly lost in his own cozy world of love and sweetness, and nearly snapped. However, before she could criticize the prior for his lack of conviction and manliness, she saw a dark passion flicker behind those clear blue eyes. It was not the passion of the flesh, but the passion crossing from fury into something much more savage. She immediately backed down, knowing that Waleran now had two enemies bent on his destruction. And, in Philip’s case, he might just be able to succeed where Ellen had failed. Attacking the prior’s beloved mason and the child whom he thought of as his own had been a terrible miscalculation on Waleran’s part. Instead of breaking Philip, it had evidently set him on the path for vengeance.

“I will go on my own,” Ellen said resolutely. “I will see what can be done for the sick and poisoned, as well as spend some time with my son.”

“Are you certain?” Philip asked as his fingers combed through the thick curls of Tom’s unbrushed hair. Tom himself did not appear to have the energy to follow the conversation for his eyes were closed and his head was nestled comfortably against the prior’s chest.

“I can take care of myself. I cannot see what difference you being with me would make. The only thing I require is for Cuthbert to keep that bitch Remigius out of my path. So long as he does that, nobody need die while I’m there.” Ellen spoke calmly as she ladled some of the rabbit stew into a bowl for Philip. Then, thinking that it would save her the trouble of refilling it, she dumped in another portion so that the prior could share with Tom. She only had the two bowls anyhow. “You will stay here with Tom and return once he is clear of any and all symptoms.” After passing Philip the wooden bowl, along with a thick wooden spoon, she served herself and wordlessly began to eat her meal. At the back of her mind, she couldn’t help wondering if she wasn’t being too merciful with the prior. And now she was allowing him to stay - unattended - in her home with Tom. She dreaded to think of how Philip might make use of both the space and the golden opportunity to be well and truly _alone_ with the mason.


End file.
